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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30062217">Regulatory Infractions</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hufflepuffhermione/pseuds/hufflepuffhermione'>hufflepuffhermione</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The West Wing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, like... so slow that it might not even count as a burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:29:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>60,178</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30062217</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hufflepuffhermione/pseuds/hufflepuffhermione</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Donna has ten rules for Josh's recovery.</p>
<p>Josh manages to break all but one of them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Josh Lyman/Donna Moss</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>208</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic was originally intended to be a 5k oneshot based around the first and last scene. It got away from me and is now ten times that length. I'm honestly surprised I've never seen a fic centered around this concept, but it's been really fun to explore dynamics through the lens of Donna's rules, so I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Donna has stopped bothering to knock on the door of his hospital room, or even peek through the windows to make sure he isn’t asleep or absent. She had timidly knocked during the first week, when he was still heavily drugged and frequently drifting in and out of consciousness, but as that first week in GW turned into something more like a month, and Josh turned into something more like… well, Josh, she had realized that timidity was not going to cut it. Especially, she reasons while she flings the door open, when he’s being an idiot.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He looks up at her sharply when she enters the room. “Hey,” is all he says, and that’s when she knows that he’s tired, because normally he’d come up with some cocky, annoying turn of phrase befitting of someone with a 760 verbal to greet her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He has every right to be tired, too, after a long physical therapy session in the morning and frank discussions with a veritable army of doctors and specialists about his upcoming discharge. But his exhaustion, Donna decides, does not excuse him from the verbal lashing he so dearly deserves.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “We need to talk,” she says, pulling up the chair that has become more familiar to her than her own bed over the last month.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh runs his hand through his increasingly shaggy hair and sighs. “I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You can’t turn down all your continuing care options, Josh! Now I know you don’t want to go to a rehab center, and frankly I think the nurses at places like that have a hard enough job when they don’t have the world’s most frustrating patient to deal with, but you can’t just go home and live on your own right now. If you’re going to go home, you’re going to need care most of the time. So why did you turn down the home health nurse?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He sighs and looks away from her. “Well, I don’t want to saddle some poor singular nurse with the world’s most frustrating patient, now do I?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And anyway, I have a one-bedroom apartment, there’s nowhere for a nurse to stay. Frankly, considering the headache insurance has been giving me about all this and the massive bill I’m sure to owe when I finally get out of this place, I don’t think I can afford it.” He takes a deep breath and winces slightly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head, approaching him a little more gently this time. “What do you plan on doing?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Going home,” he replies, offering up no more details.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, you can barely make it across the room on your own. How are you supposed to live by yourself right now?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You think I don’t know that?” he snaps. “I don’t know, Sam said he’d be willing to help me out before and after work.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna presses her lips together. “Sam hasn’t worked less than a fourteen-hour days in years, and he’s been taking on some of your workload now too. You can’t expect him to… who else?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh’s hand goes up to his head again. He needs a haircut desperately, but Donna can’t help but think that this shaggy, unkempt (or at least more so than normal) Josh is kind of sweet. “I don’t know, I was thinking maybe…” he swallows his last word “you?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Me?” Donna responds. She shouldn’t be surprised—after all, she hasn’t gone a day without popping into GW, and most days, popping in has been something more like several hours. And yet she somehow still is. She’s surprised that he wants her there to witness his vulnerability. That’s why he had sent his mother away after a few weeks; she had been distressed, understandably, to witness his pain day in and day out, and Josh finally convinced her the he wouldn’t be like Joanie, that he wouldn’t be like his father, that he would live and she didn’t need to witness every painful moment of his recovery. He was tired of trying to put on a show of being okay for her, and she was tired of trying to hide her distress from him. She hadn’t been convinced, not at first, but it was Donna who finally managed to convince her that Josh would be okay if she went back to Connecticut.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> But for some reason, Josh doesn’t feel like he has to hide anything from Donna.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I know it’s a lot to ask,” he says, “and you’ve done so much for me already that I’m forever indebted but… you also have to admit that it’s going to be a little hard for you to be the assistant at the White House to someone who is currently personally banned, by the First Lady, from his office.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna stands up and heads toward the door. “Give me a minute.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His face falls. “Donna, if that was too far I…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I never said no. I just said give me a minute,” she says. She makes the mistake of looking into his pleading eyes; while she can usually ignore them, today he seems especially weak and vulnerable. “You’ll be alright alone for a few minutes?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He shifts painfully and nods. “Yeah. Just… come back soon, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Twenty minutes,” she says, “and then we’ll talk.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> True to her word, Donna is back twenty minutes after a brief but serious conversation with one of Josh’s many doctors and a series of scribblings on a notepad. She doesn’t knock.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Twenty-three minutes,” Josh whines, as she comes back in.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head. “If you’re trying to compare the wall clock time to your watch, your watch is three minutes fast.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Why?” he demands.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I changed it once I realized how much your watch sucks. Because otherwise you’d be three minutes late to every single meeting,” she responds flippantly. “Anyway, I’ve spoken to your doctor and we’ve figured out a plan that will let you go home without having to hire a nurse for round-the-clock care.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He raises an eyebrow. “How’d you pull that one off? They all seemed pretty adamant against that this afternoon.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “First, you will have a nurse come in every day to check your heart monitor, change your dressings, monitor your blood pressure, all of that. That is non-negotiable, but the nurse won’t have to be there all the time. Second, you’re going to have a physical therapist come over to work with you two days a week, and you’re going to come in for PT for another two. And then you’ll have me there.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She can see the relief flooding through him. She knew it made him anxious to think of being in the hospital much longer, and worse to think of being moved to some sad rehab center somewhere, and so she’s relieved that it won’t come to that. “Thank you, Donna,” he says, his voice barely reaching above a whisper.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “There is something else, though,” she adds, “and you’re not allowed to argue with me on this.” She pulls out the piece of paper she had been furiously scribbling on.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What’s that?” he demands, trying to reach for it. She’s on his weak side, though, and he doesn’t yet have full mobility in his arm. His attempt makes him grimace and pull back into himself.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head. “The rules.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The rules?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I have ten rules for your recovery that you are going to follow. I know you pride yourself on being a tough negotiator, but I will not be hearing any arguments. There are no amendments, no riders…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “God, Donna, you’re somehow making me miss Congress.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She rolls her eyes. “Anyway. We’re going over them as a courtesy to you, but none of these are going to change.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Fine,” he says, setting his mouth into something that is not quite a frown.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna looks at the list. “Rule number one. You get to work from home 30 minutes each day for the next week. If all goes well, we’ll up that amount of time by 30 minutes each week.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What am I supposed to do for the other twenty three and a half hours in the day?” he whines.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well, normal people do this thing called sleeping. It's really quite nice, you should try it something,” Donna responds. “Rule number two. Visitors are allowed, but not for work reasons. I will approve or deny your visitors, but none of them, and I mean none of them, are allowed to talk about anything related to politics with you.” At his frustrated huff, she continues, “You’re supposed to be avoiding stress so that your blood pressure doesn’t skyrocket, and I don’t imagine talking shop with Toby is very conducive to that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I don’t think that will…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head. “Your blood pressure is dangerously high and if you don’t keep it down, it might render the surgeon’s delicate handiwork on your pulmonary artery null, so we’re keeping stress levels as low as possible.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I have one of the most stressful jobs in the world! And you know… I got shot, so that might explain some of that stress,” he protests.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Which is exactly why we’re keeping work to the minimum. Your friends want to be there for you, Josh, but I just want to make sure they’re not doing more harm than good. Okay, rule number three. No CNN or CSPAN.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh puts a hand to his face and closes his eyes. “MSNBC?” he whimpers.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He cracks one eye open. “…Fox News?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna almost has to laugh at that. “The goal is to keep your head from exploding. Non-negotiable. Okay, rule number four. If you’re going to read, you’re going to read for fun. Absolutely no books about politics or law or American history. Rule number five, you leave the apartment for doctor’s appointments and physical therapy only. No extraneous trips. That includes going to the White House, which you are banned from until Dr. Bartlet relents. Rule six, I’m instituting naps as part of your daily routine. Length and timeline may be negotiable, but you will be taking naps. Rule seven, you have to be nice to the people taking care of you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m always nice,” Josh protests.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I think the nurses here, who are thrilled to see the back of you, might disagree.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shakes his head. “They’re just too afraid of being entire taken in by my charm if they relent.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Seriously, Josh. I know this is difficult for you, far more difficult than it is for anyone else. But everyone is sacrificing a lot to get you healthy again, and I know my own worth. If you mistreat me, or abuse my kindness I’m not above sending you back into the care of all those nurses who love your charming personality so much,” Donna says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He looks proper chastised, perhaps a little bit shamed. “I’m sorry, I know I’m a terrible patient…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna bites her lip. She probably went too far with that, but he needs to hear it. “You really are, which is why we want you to get better as soon as possible. The better you follow the rules, the sooner you won’t have to be a patient anymore. Alright, rule eight. Diet. You’re on a cardiac patient diet and that’s going to continue until the doctors are happy with your blood pressure. Fruits and vegetables with every meal, no red meat, low sodium, nothing fried…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh has gotten used to this bit, but he still sighs. He misses eating food that he actually likes. “And you’ll be cooking for me?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Some. Your mother cooked and froze quite a few meals so you’re stocked up for now. But yes, I’ll have you know I’m a rather decent cook. Okay, rule number nine. You have to ask for help. If something is wrong, you let me know. If you can’t reach something or make it somewhere, you let me know. Don’t suffer in silence or let your stubbornness get the better of you. Nobody blames you for any of this, and if you need extra help, nobody will blame you or resent you for it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh nods slowly, taking a deep breath. He watches her face intently as she looks over the list and folds it, putting it back in her pocket. “Donna,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What’s the last rule?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The last rule?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He rolls his eyes. “You said there were ten rules.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Oh, well, the last one doesn’t really matter,” she replies, blushing. She looks down at the piece of paper, and wonders what got into her. “It just really bugged me that there were nine rules instead of ten, so I added an extra one to make it a better number.” She can’t say it out loud. It will sound stupid, and give him the wrong impression of her feelings, and might make things uncomfortable between them, and that's really not what they need right now.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh almost laughs, although he restrains himself since laughter still feels like his chest is tearing itself up from the inside. “Well now you have to tell me what it is.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head and bites her lip. She really put herself in a corner on this one. But she relents. Otherwise, he’d get the paper somehow and make this conversation even more awkward. “You’re not allowed to fall in love with me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He had restrained his laughter before, but this he cannot pass up, even though the slightest giggle sets his chest on fire. “Is that a concern of yours?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No…” she replies defensively. “I mean, you hear all these stories of men falling in love with the beautiful women nursing them back to health, the Florence Nightingale effect and everything, and I just… needed a little bit of insurance, I guess. And a tenth rule, because nine rules just didn’t feel right, and I couldn’t think of anything else that you wouldn’t instantly shoot down since it’s hard enough to get you to accept the others. But no, it’s not a concern.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He shakes his head, unable to continue laughing but still clearly humored. “I don’t think that rule ten is gonna be a problem.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No,” she agrees. “No, it absolutely won’t be. And we have it in writing that it won’t be. So, do you agree to the rules?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I don’t like the rules,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You don’t have much of a choice now, do you?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “I begrudgingly accept the rules.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Good,” she says, standing up and heading to the door. “I’ll let your doctor know we have a plan in place for your discharge tomorrow. Now you need to get some rest, and I’m going to go make sure your apartment is, you know, livable so that we can take you home tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna,” he whimpers plaintively as she opens the door.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes?’</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> A smirk begins to appear on his face and his dimples, which she has not seen nearly enough of throughout the last month, emerge. “I have a rule of my own.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And what is that?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re not allowed to fall in love with me either,” he responds.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She raises an eyebrow as she steps out of the room. “Won’t be a problem.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> How she wishes it were that easy.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Rule Number Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em>Rule #3: No TV News</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Josh had initially been surprised by all of the changes in his apartment that had occurred while he was in the hospital. He had known, of course, that Donna had the extra key to his apartment, but he hadn’t realized that she (or maybe his mother) had cleaned it so thoroughly. Gone were the clothes ostensibly drying on pieces of furniture, the files and memos scattered over every surface possible, and the half-open books that seemed to occupy every shelf. This apartment hasn’t been this clean since he’d moved in.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There had been some rearrangement of furniture as well, which Donna could not have possible done herself. Walkways are wider, obstacles removed, and a hospital bed has been moved into his bedroom. He had complained about about this when he saw it, tired of laying in uncomfortable hospital beds, but Donna had reminded him that he still needed to sleep propped up to keep pressure off of his healing lung. Anyway, she had noted, as she took a seat on his normal bed which had been pushed to the corner of the room, it can’t be much less comfortable than the twenty-year-old Ikea mattress that had been one of his first purchases post-graduation. He couldn’t argue with that.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna had the brilliant idea of bringing the TV into Josh’s room, a feat he was sure, given the bulk and size of his TV, that she did not accomplish alone. Nevertheless, he is grateful for this. Having the TV on in the background gives him a certain degree of comfort; he is so used to cable news on in every room at the White House that he can barely think without the comforting drone of reporters talking about something that only moderately resembled the truth.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The biggest problem with this setup, however, is rule number three. Donna has forbidden C-SPAN or any kind of TV news show, and to that point, she never leaves the remote within his reach. This is mildly infuriating, especially when she is not around and something he doesn’t want to watch comes on.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> In the few days since he has been home, Josh has become more than acquainted with the dearth of content available on daytime TV. He has seen far too many infomercials targeted at elderly retirees (although, he reasons, many of the gadgets they advertise would be useful for an invalid deputy White House chief of staff as well), reruns of old soaps, and marathons of movies that no one bothered to watch the first time around. The only thing worth watching at 11am on a Thursday, he decides, is CNN or C-SPAN. But for the sake of his blood pressure, he’s banned from the only channels that don’t rot his brain.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The bells from a nearby cathedral alert him that it’s now eleven and he’s gotten through about three hours of this already unbearable day. While he had come back home four days ago, the move had taken much more out of him than he expected. He had gotten up when the physical therapist came the day before, but otherwise he hasn’t left his bed. Pain radiates through his chest for no good reason (as if a bullet to his chest is not a good enough reason) and he desperately misses the morphine drip that seemed to take away the pain and make the time pass by. He’s still on plenty of pain medication, although they’re trying to reduce his dosage, but he is now painfully conscious of the interminably slow progression of time.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Time is what he needs, all the doctors had said. Expect a recovery period of at least three months before going back to work. But Josh is not friends with the progression of time; he is impatient and impulsive and has never sat still for more than a few minutes in his life until now. This whole situation is anathema to who he is, and the army of doctors jockeying to give advice or stern instructions don’t seem to understand that. But Donna does understand that; she understands him, and that’s what makes rule number three all the more frustrating.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> As the bell tower finishes its eleventh clang, the unremarkable 80s movie on his TV rolls the credits. Instead of being followed by an equally unremarkable sequel, however, the next program begins with a theme that makes it sound vaguely like a news program. Josh perks up slightly; he hasn’t seen the news in a month, and aside from the newspapers that Toby snuck him while he was in the hospital and the few memos he’s been allowed to go over during the 30 minutes he’s allowed to work each day, he’s completely in the dark as to what is going on in the world. His mood, however, quickly falls when he realizes that it is not actually a news program but instead some Christian organization talk show trying to masquerade as real news. His mood grows even darker as he watches the host introduce Mary Marsh as a political correspondent. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna!” he yells. He can’t watch this crap, and if Donna is actually worried about his blood pressure rising in response to the TV, this should have been the first program she banned. “Donna!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’s already worked up just from seeing Mary Marsh on his screen, but he can’t tear himself away. Donna isn’t coming, and he’s about to be concerned when he remembers that she ran out about twenty minutes ago for groceries. He had assured her he’d be fine for an hour alone.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The prospect of being stuck in a room with Mary Marsh blathering her idiocy for another forty minutes, however, is almost unbearable.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He reaches for a stress ball that he’s supposed to be using to regain strength in his arm and hurls it at the television, hoping against hope that it might hit the power button and save him from listening to this woman talk about, of all subjects, gun control. Josh may not be an expert on Christianity or the Bible, but he’s pretty sure there’s nothing about the right to bear arms in there, so why anyone would ask for Mary Marsh’s opinion on it is beyond him. Then again, why anyone would ask for Mary Marsh’s opinion in the first place is beyond him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The ball falls about a foot short of the television, barely clearing the end of his bed. Damn. Josh flops back in frustration, yells out one more frustrated “Donna!”, and puts his hand to his forehead.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The host goes on about how any kind of gun control is unconstitutional and un-American, and Josh is about ready to explode. “You know what’s un-American?” he screams. It’s painful to shout like this and there’s no one to hear him, but he doesn’t care. “Shooting at the fucking President!” He leans back into his pillows again and rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He has to change the channel.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He glances across the room and notices that Donna left the TV remote on his normal bed in the corner. It’s only about five feet away from where he is right now. Just a few steps. He’s walked further than that unassisted in PT, and while he’s not supposed to get out of bed without someone by his side, he’s reasonably confident that he can make it. Donna is unreachable at the moment, and he’d rather not have to drag one of his friends away from their very important White House jobs just to turn off his TV because he can’t bear to listen to people he hates defend the guns he hates even more.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He turns down the rail on the side of his bed and presses the remote on the side to sit himself up as far as it can go. He can sit himself up without assistance, but this is a recent achievement that requires an absurd amount of energy which he’ll need to expend getting out of bed and walking across the room.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh dangles his feet over the side of the bed, and with a hefty grunt manages to push himself to his feet. He stands for a second, making sure that he can catch his balance. His legs shake dangerously, but he grips his bedside table as he takes a few steps toward the bed, and then switches his grip to the headboard and grabs the remote. He repeats the process successfully and lands heavily on his hospital bed. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He is breathing heavily, actually sweating from the eight steps he took, and his heart beats just a little too fast for comfort, although thankfully apparently not fast enough to set off his portable heart monitor. He almost chuckles to himself at the irony; one day he was the third most powerful man in the executive branch of the United States government, the next, barely able to walk four steps across his bedroom to grab a tv remote. Despite all this, however, he feels good. Better than he has, really, since he woke up in GW. Maybe for him, accomplishment is the best medicine.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He points the remote at the TV, praying that Donna didn’t do something spiteful like take the batteries out, and changes the channel. No more Mary Marsh, no more misquoting of Bible verses to support illogical positions, just him, a half-finished smoothie that Donna left for him, and some CNN.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh is pleasantly surprised to discover that he actually isn’t that stressed while watching CNN. Yes, he yells at the Republican senator they bring on about ten minutes into the show, but that is more for his own amusement than out of any sort of stress. He just really misses yelling at Republicans. Yes, Donna is strict about the rules, but she forgets that he went to law school and he trained in the art of arguing his point; he’s pretty confident that he can argue his way out of rule number three. He can handle this.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> That is, until there’s a breaking news alert. “New charges are being brought forth against Carl LeRoy, the suspect implicated in the planning of last month’s attempted assassination of President Bartlet in Rosslyn, Virginia. We’ll be taking you live to the courtroom in just a few minutes.” Josh immediately feels as if he’s going to throw up. He hasn’t thought much about the events that got him here, and he certainly doesn’t want to see the faces of the white supremacists who were willing to inflict so much damage simply because of Charlie. Charlie, who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and yet they wanted to kill him. He can’t see the faces because then he’d have to direct his anger toward a person. It is easier to be angry at the gun and the bullet than at the people who shot him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He tries to close his eyes but he can’t look away. They are playing footage from that night, footage that he’s certainly never seen, but the images are surprisingly consistent with what his brain has conjured up in his nightmares. Flashing lights, sirens, chaos, and blood. So much blood. Most of it his.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh reaches for the remote but instead manages to knock it off of his bed and onto the floor. “Dammit,” he murmurs. He could grab the remote earlier because he didn’t have to bend down, but there is no way he can get down to the floor to get the remote and get back up again. He's stuck while his worst nightmares are being broadcast on live television. Although he supposes they’re not even nightmares when this is his reality.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> If the footage that they play is bad, the cut to a courtroom is worse. Josh doesn’t listen to the words that the judge says as he brings forth the charges against LeRoy, who sits there with a stupid smug smirk on his face the entire time. Josh can’t tear away. It’s his fault, it’s his fault, it’s his fault. Part of him wants the man dead, wants to see him brutally punished for him crimes. But there is little power of passion behind his anger, and that concerns him more. Did the bullet take away all of his fight? Or is he just not convinced that it really was Carl LeRoy’s fault? </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Because of Josh’s spiraling train of thought, in between the refrain of ‘it’s his fault’ inserts ‘it’s <em>my</em> fault’ more than a few times.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There is no reason he should think this or believe it. After all, LeRoy is quite rightly sitting in a courtroom in restraints. The justice system has the authority to assign such blame, and none of it rests with Josh. He has a clear target for his anger and he has every right to be angry.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> But he doesn’t have the strength to send out his anger, and he knows if he does, he’ll likely miss the target. So he lets it simmer inside himself, and ‘it’s <em>my</em> fault’ permeates his thoughts more than LeRoy does. It’s <em>my</em> fault.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It’s easy enough to think when he’s subconsciously repeated that mantra day after day. Ever since he saw his house go up in flames and never saw his sister again. And now that he’s cheated death twice… well, that’s bound to make the world feel a little off, and who else could it be blamed on but himself?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He closes his eyes and tries to get LeRoy’s face out of his mind. Tries to erase the blood and the flames and the hurt because there is nothing he can do. There is nothing he <em>should</em> do but accept it. This is his punishment for being alive, but he’ll deal with it. He always has. He can’t make sense of his thoughts, but he’s not sure he has to.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> This is better, he thinks, as the anchor cuts away to another story. Anger is energy, something which he is uncharacteristically lacking in, and keeping it inside means that no one else will get hurt. He takes a deep breath, ignoring how it sends pangs through his chest.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Everything seems so silent until a cacophony of noises pulls him out of his thoughts. The bells at the cathedral ring, signaling yet another hour has passed in another interminable day. His heart monitor is beeping insistently, warning him that he raised his heart rate too much. How long has that been going off, he wonders? He assumes it started with the Rosslyn footage, but he can’t remember the sound beginning. Finally, he hears the sound that he needs to hear most—Donna wrestling with the sticky front door of his apartment, her shoes clicking across his creaky wooden floors. He’s going to hear something about breaking rule number three, and it won’t be pleasant. But any distraction, pleasant or not, is welcome.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She doesn’t take too much time before popping her head into his bedroom. “How’s it going?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh leans back and shrugs, trying to look as innocent as possible, but he’s betrayed by the incessant beeping of the heart monitor. “I’m… fine,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m not deaf or blind, Josh. You are clearly not fine,” she says, walking quickly towards his bed before hitting the TV remote with her foot. She leans down to pick it up and raises an eyebrow. “How did this get down here?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Um…earthquake?” he swallows, having the good grace to look sheepish.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna gives him a look before checking the heart monitor. She turns around to glance at the TV. “Josh,” she says sternly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He bites his lip but doesn’t make any attempt to reply.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Rule number three,” she says, switching the TV off. “Do you have an explanation?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shifts his eyes to try to get out from under her gaze. “The situation is maybe not quite as bad as you think. On the other hand, it could be much worse, so… fine. The channel I was watching had one of those Christian talk show things masquerading as news, and they had Mary Marsh on to talk about gun control of all things, so obviously I couldn’t watch that. I could feel that raising my blood pressure by the minute. And you weren’t back, so I had to take things into my own hands.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna doesn’t seem impressed. “Where was the remote?” she questions.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The other bed.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And how did you get it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There’s no point in lying. “I walked.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna stands up from her perch at the end of his bed and throws her hands into the air. “Josh, what if you had fallen! I would have found you on the floor, and knowing you, you’d manage to hit your head on something and bleed out on your bedroom floor and…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey, hey, hey, no need to get so graphic. It was eight steps. I made it fine.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And that set off your heart monitor, no doubt.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shakes his head. “Actually, no. Donna, I was fine doing that. It felt really good, actually. No… then I had to change the channel of course, and I just hadn’t watched the news in so long… so yes, I broke rule three. In my defense, I wasn’t stressed while watching CNN.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna motions to his heart monitor, which has finally stopped beeping. “You’re a terrible liar, Josh.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, I swear, I was doing great. But then they… did you know the signal from the night at Rosslyn was getting formally charged today?” He tries to pass off this information as casual, but the furrow of his brow as he says it betrays him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Her face falls and she reaches for his hand. “I did,” she says softly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah, well, I might have liked to be aware of that, considering he’s being charged for my attempted murder.” Josh’s voice lacks exasperation; it is instead sarcastic and cutting and cold.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna nods and squeezes his hand gently. “Toby wanted to talk to you about it. I wouldn’t let him since I thought it might stress you out. There’s nothing you can do about it Josh; you’ve been an integral part of building up this justice system recently, so let the system do its work.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’s a lot calmer than she might have expected after this. “I know… it just was a shock to see his face and know…” he swallows, “that he’s the reason I’m like this.” Maybe saying the words out loud will help him to believe them, to externalize his anger. “I don’t really care what happens to him, to be honest. I just want to move on.” He’s not sure he believes himself, but he certainly doesn’t want to talk about it, and this seems like the best way to get past the subject.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Okay.” Donna says. “You’re sure you’re alright?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It just… shook me a bit, I think.” More than a bit, he reasons, but Donna doesn’t need to know that. She’s been privy to the worst of him this last month, she doesn’t need to see his inner demons as well.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Okay,” she repeats. “I don’t want to hold it over you but…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh rolls his eyes. “Rule number three, yes, I know. It’s for my own good.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I only have your best interests at heart, Josh. Still, I suppose a little CNN once in a while won’t kill you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He smiles and shakes his head. “A bullet to the chest couldn’t kill me, I think I can handle a little CNN.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna stands up and begins to head toward the door. “Don’t think this means I’m okay with you breaking the rules. They exist for a reason, and I expect you to follow them so we can get you healthy again as soon as possible.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donnatella, I swear I will stick to your holy Ten Commandments,” Josh teases, and somehow it all feels okay again. He can put LeRoy and his self-destructive mantra in the back of his head and let himself banter easily with Donna. Those minutes of panic that felt like hours were simply an aberration, weren’t they?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> As Donna leaves to go put the groceries away, he realizes that she set the remote on his bedside table, easily within his reach. He grabs it and turns the TV on again, but after a second, changes the channel.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Rule Number Six</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em>Rule #6: Mandatory Naps</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If the days are too long, the nights are even longer. Josh cranes his neck to glance at the clock on his bedside table and lets out a sigh of frustration when he sees that it just 2:37. Last time he checked, it had been 2:31, and yet he swears an hour must have gone by between his glances.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> For the second night in a row, he isn’t sleeping. He has never really suffered from insomnia before; truth be told, he never had the time. He would get home from work late, set his alarm for some absurdly early hour, and pass out from exhaustion. If he didn’t fall asleep right away, he would start working on something until he fell asleep on top of it. He figures over the last six weeks he probably has gotten more sleep than in the entire preceding year.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Before last night, he had been sleeping twelve hours a night and taking a two hour nap in the middle of the day. He had whined about it, of course, but he had to admit he’d seriously underrated sleep.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Of course, that was until last night, when this stretch of sleeplessness began.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He can think of two explanations for his insomnia, but one is easier to embrace than the other. Two days before, he had gone to a doctor’s appointment and discussed his medication regimen. The doctor had been pleased with his progress and had decided to cut his pain medication dosage in half. While Josh certainly wants to feel less fuzzy-headed and lethargic, he isn’t sure the searing pain in his chest is worth the trade-off.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The pain is why he can’t sleep, he’s decided. The medication had made him constantly sleepy, but it effectively dulled the pain. But with only half his dosage, he doesn’t feel sleepy at all and his mind can do nothing but fixate on how much his chest hurts, and annoying, how much the rest of him that didn’t even get hit by a bullet hurts as well.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Better to fixate on that, he supposes, rather than on the other reason he can’t sleep.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The night before his appointment, he’d had a nightmare. A bad one. Josh is used to nightmares; even before Rosslyn, he’d rarely go a month without waking up breathless and sweaty and with a vague recollection of fire. He’s had more than a few since Rosslyn, but none had felt so intense or alarming as two nights ago. There were gunshots and sirens and lights, as there always were, but it was more than that. It was as if every single one of them—every person he’d ever cared about—were caught up in it and it was all his fault. He had woken up to the beeping of his heart monitor, breathless and coughing painfully, sweaty and with choking sobs that seemed to come from somewhere else. And Donna might have been there- he couldn’t be sure since the line between asleep and awake was blurry and he’d been consumed by panic. He couldn’t remember. She shouldn’t have been there, she should have been sleeping at her apartment. Her face was just one of the many faces in his dream, he tells himself.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He had gone back to a fitful, restless sleep that night, but he hasn’t slept since.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh has certainly gone without sleep longer than these last forty hours; he’d been awake for twice that during the last week of the campaign, until Donna had forced him into his hotel room the night before the election and refused to let him leave unless he went to sleep. But then he had been running on adrenaline and coffee and pure youthful energy, not trying to recover from a devastating gunshot wound. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He had tried his usual strategy of working himself to sleep earlier, but the only book he could reach from his bed was his old college debate textbook, which he had read cover to cover in a matter of hours. He had pulled it out to prove a point to Sam when they had talked on the phone earlier that day, and somehow Donna didn’t snatch it away from him. That isn’t enough to put him to sleep though, and it had been a fairly boring read. Debating is more fun than the theory of debate.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He takes another look at the clock and groans. 2:43. Every time he thinks he might be about to drift off, he considers what he might be facing if sleep does take him, and the fear of another nightmare like that one jolts him awake again. It’s as if his own mind is preventing him from sleep.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> But it’s not a brain thing, he tells himself. It’s the pain. The pain is the reason he can’t sleep. Too bad he doesn’t believe his own reasoning.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sleep is no closer, the pains in his chest and back are increasing, and his mind races to places where he doesn’t want it to go.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Somehow the next five hours pass by, but they are slow and he never manages to drift off. Donna peeks in around eight the next morning. “Hey,” she says softly, clearly discouraged by the fact that he is already awake. “How’d you sleep?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He runs a hand through his hair. “Fine.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She bites her lip and sits at the end of his bed. It’s her usual spot, close enough to be friendly but not too close to be anything more. “You’re lying.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m serious, I’m fine!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You didn’t sleep again.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh presses his lips together and looks away. Usually, he finds Donna’s ability to instantly read him useful, but sometimes it becomes too much. “I didn’t sleep again.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Okay,” she says. Her voice is soft. “Okay. Do you want to talk to your doctor about it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He shrugs. “It’s two nights. I’ve gone two nights without sleeping before, I’m sure I’ll be fine tonight. I think I’m just adjusting to the dosage change.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna doesn’t look convinced but she lets it slide. “Okay. Do you want me to cancel your PT appointment?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No,” he says firmly. He’s complained to her many times about how he hates PT, how he’s always in more pain afterward and how it makes him feel weak and ineffectual and pathetic. But he never cancels, no matter how bad a day it is.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna nods, unsurprised by his response. He’s clearly struggling again; the last week had gone surprisingly smoothly until the doctor’s appointment, but one thing they’ve both learned in the last six weeks is that recovery is not linear and bad days are inevitable. But even on bad days, Josh still seems like Josh; today, she’s not so sure. “Okay,” she says again. “Do you want some breakfast?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I want some coffee,” he says, rubbing his face. “Donna, you never bring me coffee.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> That’s a little more like it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m not allowed to give you coffee, Joshua. Rule number eight, remember? Coffee is the first on a very long list of forbidden foods and drinks.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I miss coffee,” he moans. “I love coffee, I practically lived on coffee. You never brought me coffee. Donna, why don’t you bring me coffee?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Annoyed as she is by his whining, Donna can’t help but be relieved that he sounds like himself. “You know what you need more than coffee? A long nap.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “When you come back from PT, you’re taking a nap. A long one. Rule six.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He sighs and rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I’ll try but I’m really not holding out much hope that I’ll actually…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You have to sleep eventually. Anyway, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve we can try,” she says, patting his calf as she stands up. “I’ll bring you some breakfast, and the nurse should be here in half an hour to check on you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh watches as she heads for the kitchen, tempted to teasingly beg for coffee once more, but too tired to push it. Annoying as Donna can be about the rules, and as much as he argues about them at every opportunity, he really is overwhelmingly grateful for her. She comes over every day and stays until he’s ready to sleep (or at least to attempt to do so), unless she’s off at the White House keeping his office running and farming out the assignments he can’t manage to do in the limited time he’s allowed to work. She is amazing, he thinks, even if she doesn’t bring him coffee.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She really is incredible, he thinks again, as Donna manages to squeeze her car into an impossibly tiny (and probably illegal) parking space directly in front of his apartment. He’s thankfully on the first floor, but the half-flight of stairs at the stoop of his building is still a challenge, especially after an exhausting session with his physical therapist. “You should turn your hazards on,” he says, as she turns off the car and opens her door.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Last time I did that, my car ran out of battery in the span of three minutes,” Donna replies. “It’ll be fine.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re parked in front of a fire hydrant Donna, they’d have every reason to ticket you or tow you!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She comes around to his side of the car and opens the door. “I’ll move it in five minutes. I’d rather risk that than run down my battery. Josh, this car is fifteen years old and in pretty bad shape. I’m not going to put it through any more than it has to go through.” She bends down and wraps her arm around his back to help him stand up.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You could use my car.” They take the few slow steps toward the stairs together. “I can’t use it for who knows how long, and I don’t want you stuck on the side of the road somewhere when that piece of junk falls apart.” Then up the ten steps of his stoop. He grasps the railing in one hand, Donna supporting him on the other side with surprising strength. The climb makes him breathless, but then again, everything does these days, and all things considered it’s much easier than the first time he ascended the steps coming home from the hospital. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’d trust me to use your car?” Donna picks up the conversation once they’ve made it up to the top. Josh clearly needs a minute to lean heavily against both her and the exterior wall before continuing inside. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He nods. “I’d trust you with my life,” he jokes, but it isn’t quite a joke. He wonders if Donna realizes that, but before he can ponder it any longer, another wave of exhaustion comes over him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Let’s get you inside,” she says. “Now you’ve got me all worried about being towed.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Just to the couch,” he says, as she inserts the key into his front door and opens it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You sure? You’re taking a nap this afternoon, you know that, right?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh sighs. In truth, he’s not quite sure he can make it the extra several steps to the bedroom and he certainly doesn’t want to fall on her. “Yes, but I’m going to eat lunch first and I’d like to eat my lunch sitting on the couch like a normal person for once.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Normal people eat their lunch at a table,” Donna retorts, but she helps him the last few steps to the couch. “But then again, no one has ever accused you of being normal.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He grunts heavily as he lowers himself down to the couch, and coughs a few times. It doesn’t turn into a coughing fit like he often worries it will, but it certainly isn’t comfortable. “Normal people don’t make it to the White House,” he mutters.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Now that I can get behind,” she agrees. She’s looking at him with a frown. “You’ll be alright while I move my car?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He waves her off with his good arm. “I’ll be fine.” He leans back into the cushions. “You know, I could really go for a burger right now. If you’re not going to give me coffee…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He loves to hear his name in her voice. Maybe that’s why he bugs her so often. “Just a thought. Go, I don’t want you to get towed, although I’m not sure anyone could get your car out of that spot if you tried.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “My parallel parking skills are unmatched,” she brags, heading towards the door.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Ah yes, all that practice in the crowded downtown streets of… Madison, Wisconsin.” He teases her, but he hopes that somehow she knows that he really is impressed. Not just by the parking, but by her… being her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She rolls her eyes. “Shut up, Josh, I’d like to see you try.” With that, the door closes behind her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in. He really is exhausted, not just from PT but from the sleepless nights and the sheer amount of energy it takes to simply live like this. The pain is significant, and the fear of another nightmare even more so, but they seem to pale in comparison to his utter exhaustion. He closes his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> When he opens them again, he isn’t alone. Donna is sitting next to him on his couch, gently tapping his shoulder. “Josh.” Her voice is so pretty, he thinks in a kind of daze. He groans and rubs his eyes to see her sitting next to him with a plate of food. “Hey,” she says, brushing his hair out of his face.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey,” he murmurs. “You woke me up. I think I was finally sleeping.” He tries to turn around to look at the clock in his kitchen, but Donna stops him before the motion becomes painful.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She sighs. “I know, I know. I wanted to let you, but you can’t nap here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Why not? I can sleep in unconventional places! Do you know how many times I’ve slept at my desk?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna hands him the plate she is holding. “That’s not something to brag about. And anyway, you know sleeping like that will kill your back, and you don’t need that on top of anything else.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She’s right, and he knows she’s right, but he still is a little frustrated at having his one bit of sleep interrupted. He looks down at the salad on his plate. “You really couldn’t spring for the burger?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Rule number eight, baby,” she cites. “But I’m being kind and giving you dressing today even if we’re supposed to keep your saturated fats low.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He raises an eyebrow. “And I’m supposed to get excited over dressing?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re not supposed to get excited at all—you’re getting that blood pressure down again.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I hate the rules,” he mutters as he stabs the disappointing leaves on his plate. “But let the record show that it was Donnatella Moss who broke rule number six, and not myself. I was, in fact, trying to nap and you wouldn’t allow me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna smacks his head gently. “I am the maker of the rules, that gives me the right to break them when I see fit.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well you’ve done a pretty good impression of a Republican congressman but I think unless you’re extremely wealthy and powerful, the US justice system may see a problem with that assessment.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She can’t help but smirk. This is the Josh she knows so well, and it’s a relief to have him back. “Your defense does not work when you also broke the rules every day for the last few days.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Ah, the <em>tu quoque </em>fallacy. That’s not going to win you any arguments, Donnatella.” He stabs another piece of lettuce.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Don’t go all Ivy League on me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh swallows his salad and smirks. “I’m pretty sure they teach logical fallacies outside of the Ivy League. Maybe that sort of rampant intellectualism has even made its way to Wisconsin.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’s infuriating, but she’s known that for a long time. “Eat your lunch, and then you’re going to take a nap. In your bed.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You know, changing the subject like that could also be regarded as a logical fallacy.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head and stands up. “I should have taken that stupid debate textbook away from you. No wonder your light was on until one last night!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh’s jaw drops. He thought that she left at nine, right when he said he was going to try to sleep. “How late were you here last night, Donna?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She gives him a look. “No wonder you haven’t been sleeping, you’re too busy trying to back up your stupid arguments with big words.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna, how late were you here?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I didn’t leave,” she says, as if he should have known that already.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You didn’t leave? Donna, where did you sleep?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She shrugs. “The couch. It’s really quite comfortable.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You slept on my couch last night and didn’t think to tell me?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna paces to the other side of the room. “Josh, I’ve slept on your couch every night since you came home from the hospital.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You what?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She can’t tell if he’s angry, shocked, or simply confused. Maybe all of the above. “I thought you were aware! I thought you knew that was part of the deal! There was no point in going home late every night just to get here early in the morning. Besides, someone needs to be here with you in case…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shakes his head and puts his half-eaten plate on the table beside him. “You’ve been sleeping on my couch the last two weeks and you didn’t think to tell me?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I don’t know, I just assumed you’d realize that was part of the plan,” she says. “It wasn’t like I had bad intentions or anything, I just figured I’m here morning till night anyway so why bother going back to my place? Especially if you needed something in the middle of the night.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He wishes more than anything he could get up and pace the room. That always helps him think. “You’re sleeping on my couch? You’re living here?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “God, Josh, it’s almost like I’m dedicating my time and energy to caring for your sorry self despite the fact that this is not anywhere in my job description. Yes, I’ve been staying in your apartment and if you’re pissed about that…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna…” he interrupts. “I’m not pissed. I’m not. I’m so incredibly grateful to you. All I’m saying is I might have liked to know you were still around.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She finally looks him in the eye. “Yeah, I suppose it would have helped you to know that in case of emergency. I guess I wanted to make sure you had time alone so that you didn’t feel overwhelmed or oppressed by me…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Never,” he whispers.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ll remind you of that next time you whine about the rules.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He lets out a puff of air that might be a laugh if laughing wasn’t so painful. “You know, if there had been something wrong, I wouldn’t have called for you because I didn’t think you were here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna presses her lips together. “Your first response to any kind of trouble is to yell my name; you’d figure out how to do it eventually.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “If a tree falls in a forest with no one around, does it make a sound? Does Josh call for Donna if she isn’t around?” he teases.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna rolls her eyes but lets a smile play at the edge of her lips. She’s seen sleep-deprived Josh and she’s seen drugged Josh, but the combination is really something else. “Poetic. And I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to find out.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh sighs. “Donna, I… You can’t sleep on my couch forever. If you want, I have a bed I’m not using at the moment.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You snore, Josh.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m sorry my painstakingly reconstructed lung isn’t entirely operational yet.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna laughs softly. While she doesn’t make light of his injuries, she’s glad to hear that he’s in a mood to joke about it. Humor has always been a coping mechanism of sorts for him, but of all the things he could be doing, it’s one of the healthier ones. “You snored before, too.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “How do you know that?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Didn’t you just brag about how many times you fell asleep at your desk? Don’t forget that time I found you hungover in your office on a Saturday morning, and all the other…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He smiles and closes his eyes. “Okay, fine, I snore. Whatever. All I’m saying is, if you want to sleep somewhere that isn’t my couch, that’s an option.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Okay.” She sits down next to him again, feeling lighter but also filled with her own exhaustion. “I think it’s time for me to invoke rule number six,” she says, seeing him yawn and trying to stifle her own.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He is surprisingly acquiescent; the sleepless nights really have taken their toll. After she’s helped him back into his bed and change into a sweatshirt that isn’t sweaty and smelly from PT, she closes the blinds and turns off the light in his room. “Need anything else?” Donna asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “How much did you sleep last night?” He’s really been bad at checking in on her, he realizes, and after everything she’s done for him, that seems like an egregious oversight.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “How much did you sleep? If you saw my light on at one last night…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe four or five hours?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And the night before?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Probably about the same.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He lets out an exasperated sound. “Has it been like this the whole time?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, I haven’t gotten more than maybe six hours of sleep a night since I started working for you. It’s fine. I’m in my twenties, this is the time of my life I’m supposed to be running on next to no sleep. And if you hadn’t noticed, until someone put a bullet in your chest, you never got more sleep than that either.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She’s right, of course, but he’s come to a greater appreciation of the benefits of sleep and he doesn’t want to keep her from that. “I’m going to invoke rule number six on you, too,” he says firmly. “The bed’s right there, lie down and take a nap.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, I really need to stop at the office for some…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Work can wait.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna laughs at that. “Okay, I think your meds are really making you loopy because the Josh Lyman I know would never…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He looks at her seriously. “I’m your boss. I’m instructing you to take a nap. If you don’t, I’m going to fire you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh grins. “I know. But I’m also pretty good at getting my way, rules be damned.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Let the record show that you are, in fact, following the rules.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I am a believer in a just and fair law, and I obey the law when it is just. Today, I believe the law is just. But I also believe the law applies equally to all, and thus I am extending the rule of law to you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna kicks off her shoes in his doorway and makes a show of rolling her eyes. “That was utter gibberish. I may not have an Ivy League degree, but I know nonsense when I hear it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m a sleep-deprived man currently on a lot of opioids. If you want sense, you’re coming to the wrong place.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She sits on the edge of his other bed. “Go to sleep, Josh.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’ll stay?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna nods. “Toby might yell at me when I don’t show up to pick up your stuff, but I’ll stay.” To prove her point, she lifts up the covers and gets into the bed, gazing at Josh from across the room.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh smiles and closes his eyes. “I like rule six,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He begins to snore within a few minutes, but to Donna’s surprise, his snoring does not, in fact, keep her awake.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Rule Number Four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em>Rule #4: Reading for Fun Only</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Josh Lyman is prone to severe bouts of tunnel vision. Donna has known this since the day she started working for him, when he refused to give up on an issue that everyone else had given up on, turning it into a powerful and useful ad for the campaign. He had stayed up all night researching and Donna wondered briefly what she might have gotten herself into.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She still wonders that sometimes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She had figured before that his tunnel vision tendencies only extended to politics. After all, Josh lives and breathes politics. He never shuts up about politics, even in ostensibly non-work related discussions. Josh is a political creature. She can imagine him even as a little boy being transfixed by C-SPAN, or as a student at Harvard arguing the merits of some obscure bill. She almost feels bad about practically banning him from politics as he recovers. Almost.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> But, as it turns out, Josh’s tunnel vision isn’t inextricably tied to politics.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’s a voracious reader when he has the chance, she finds out, and this doesn’t necessarily surprise her. After all, she’s seen him plowing through memos at twice the speed of a normal human. But now that he doesn’t have work to keep him occupied for eighteen or twenty hours of the day, he goes through books faster than anyone she’s ever seen.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Rule number four makes this complicated. She’s banned him from anything involving politics, law, or history—nothing that could possibly be work-related—but Josh’s well-stocked bookshelf consists almost entirely of books on politics, law, and history. As it turns out, his co-workers all seem to have similar tunnel vision when it comes to reading materials; she seeks out new books to borrow from almost everyone in the White House, but absolutely no one seems to ever read anything for fun.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna is grateful to discover the library branch two blocks from Josh’s apartment; she had feared that she might max out his credit card as he sent her to the bookstore for something new nearly every day. It’s odd, she thinks, to browse the stacks of books like she used to do as a kid. It’s been so long since she’s had time to read for enjoyment that she hardly knows what to read anymore.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It’s a good thing, then, that Josh knows exactly what he wants to read about.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It started with a TV program he watched while in the hospital. It had been some local access lecture which he might have rolled his eyes at, but the program had caught him at a moment where he was just at the right balance of drugged, awake, and out of his mind with boredom that he latched onto the lecture with fascination.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The next day, he had asked Donna for a book about theoretical physics.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna had agreed, figuring that he would benefit from a new topic, but she almost regrets her agreement now.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Because, as it turns out, Josh’s tunnel vision isn’t inextricably linked to politics</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Over the past few weeks, Josh has devoured every book on theoretical physics that Donna can possibly find. The librarians have begun to recognize her as she stops in every few days to pick up a few more heavy, unreadable tomes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I think you’ve just about exhausted our collection of these,” the librarian says as Donna comes up to the counter to check out a few more books. “You’re really interested in physics, aren’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head. “These are for my boss, actually,” she says, and then wonders why she says it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Where do you work?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She’s hesitant to respond; the librarian is obviously assuming she works in some kind of lab or for a university. Saying ‘oh, I work at the White House’ always brings more questions than it does answers. No, she doesn’t need to bring work into this.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “He’s not really working right now—he’s recovering from a surgery and so I’ve just been bringing him reading materials,” Donna finally says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The librarian stamps the books and hands them to her. “He must be very lucky to have an employee like you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> If only she knew, Donna thinks, but she nods gratefully. “Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “If you run out of materials here, another branch might have more of what you’re looking for,” says the librarian.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Just what she needs. She’s almost tempted to let him read about politics if it might shut him up about theoretical physics. But she nods and thanks the librarian, slings the book bag over her shoulder, and heads back to his apartment.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> When she opens the door, Josh is sprawled out on the couch, listening intently with someone on the phone. He’s really not supposed to be; he’s up to an hour and a half of work each day now, but he’d already spent more than that time drafting memos that morning about a mind-boggling variety of subjects. When he sees her, he holds up a hand. “Hey, sorry, but I gotta go,” he says into the phone. “I’ll talk to you later.” He puts it down and looks up at Donna sheepishly. “Hi.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Who was that?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh doesn’t meet her eyes. “My mother.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “If it was your mother, you wouldn’t have hung up so fast. So was it CJ or Toby?” They have been the worst offenders of the rules, aside from Josh himself. Toby constantly calls Josh, frequently interrupting when Josh is supposed to be napping, and CJ, while possessing better timing, is almost as frequent of a caller.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He presses his lips together. “Sam,” he admits.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam has been the most compliant with the rules of Josh’s coworkers. He comes over after work most days and helps with some of the tasks that Josh refuses to let Donna help with, such as showering. But Sam, while adamant that Josh follow instructions to recover as soon as possible, is not infallible. He still calls outside of working hours, sneaks in unauthorized work materials, and engages in work conversation when pushed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Sam knows not to call you past noon,” Donna admonishes, setting down the book bag. “Really, he should know better.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He had finally relented and allowed Donna to give him a haircut a few days prior, and while he looks much more like himself, Donna finds herself almost missing the scruffy look he had rocked over the previous weeks. “I called him,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You called him?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Look, I needed clarification on one of the bills I read over this morning, and I needed to make sure they were going after the votes they’re actually going to get; Sam wanted to try to get Whitaker on it when he’s in a tough race he’ll lose if he votes yes, and we need to keep his seat. They need to get Halley and Friedman on it, they’re in safe districts but they’re holding out,” he says. “The midterms are coming up fast and we don’t have enough strong contenders in red districts to be able to afford anyone we have now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head. “Josh, you can’t…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I can! That’s the problem, I’m the one who deals with all of this and while they’re all brilliant, none of them have the relationship with Congress and so now we’re faltering on all these bills and…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She puts a hand on his shoulder. “I know, the country is really going to fall completely apart if Josh Lyman isn’t micromanaging the entire legislative branch.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He gives her a look. “Sometimes it does feel that way,” he says pointedly. “It’s just… so many things have fallen through the cracks, and I don’t blame anyone, but I’m worried that we’re going to lose ground at the midterms, and then we’re going to be even more hampered in our ability to get anything done and then…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, you need to just take a minute. Stop acting like the fate of the world rests on your shoulders. Stop being so… you.” She pulls a heavy book out of the bag and places it on his lap. “Here. Maybe this will distract you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He bites his lip. “You’re not going to let me call Sam back?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Rule number one. Keep work to working hours.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The nation does not run on working hours,” Josh complains.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna puts his phone back in its base. “Yes, I remember the sixteen hour days you normally put in. And then you went and got shot while serving your country and I’m sure America does not begrudge you a little break from your heroics.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The jury’s out on that- we’ll see how badly we get creamed in the midterms,” he sighs. “If I was there to make sure we were pushing the right people on the right bills so we don’t lose any…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, I hate to tell you this because I know it damages your ego, but if we don’t win back the house this election, it’s not going to be your fault. You work at the White House, so your influence on congressional campaigns is minimal at best and potentially illegal at worst,” she says. “Last time I checked, the people of the Washington 8th weren’t exactly planning on basing their votes on whatever Josh Lyman is wrangling 3,000 miles away.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He scratches the back of his head, looking down at the book in front of him. “This is my job, Donna. And I love my job and it kills me not to do it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes, I know, and you came out of the womb talking about bills and riders and executive orders, but I think it’s time you pick up a new interest. Which is why I bring you new books on theoretical physics all the time and let you talk my ear off about it, even if it’s just about the most boring subject I could think of,” Donna replies, gesturing to the book on his lap.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh turns the book over and reads the back cover. “Theoretical physics is fascinating! It explains all of this- why we’re here, why the universe keeps spinning, why…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She’s thankful to have found a topic that he can go on and on about that isn’t work-related, but she wonders why, of all things, it has to be physics. Donna considers herself fairly well-rounded in her knowledge; after all, she’s dabbled in five different majors and is perhaps the only person in the White House, save maybe Sam, who could hold her own in a head-to-head trivia match with President Bartlet. But of all the many things Donna knows about, physics is the one gap in her knowledge. She has never taken a physics course—she had registered for one at Madison but had dropped out before taking it—and while she’s pretty smart, she’s never been able to wrap her head around the more abstract ideas of physics. Josh, on the other hand, seems to only care about the absurdly abstract. She will nod and pretend to understand as he goes on and on, but she certainly doesn’t know how to actually have a conversation about it. Josh probably feels like he’s talking to a brick wall, but that doesn’t stop him. Not much stops him when he gets excited about something.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m glad you’re using this time to learn something new,” Donna says when she think’s he’s done with his rant about why physics is important. It has practically become a stump speech now; Donna has heard it a million times (although she still doesn’t understand any of it), she’s sure that every single of of Josh’s co-workers has heard it at least three times at this point, and even the president got an abbreviated version when he called a few days prior to check in.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I can’t believe you just lectured the president of the United States on theoretical physics,” Donna had said when he hung up the phone. “All he did was ask how you were doing.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh had grinned. “It’s revenge for the hours I’ve listened to him go on about national parks and Latin etymology.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sometimes when Donna takes a step back, she recognizes how absurd it is that her life has led her here: sitting in the apartment of the deputy White House chief of staff while he lectures the president of the United States on theoretical physics. But most of the time, she is working too hard to pretend to be interesting in Josh’s ramblings to notice.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He cracks open the book. “Maybe I should have studied physics instead,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You haven’t done too badly for yourself in politics.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, I guess I can’t complain too much about that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna heads toward the kitchen. “I’m going to make some lunch; need anything in particular?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’d tell you what I want but I know that regardless of what I request, I will get a sad pile of leaves that, if I’m lucky, may have some chicken on top of it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Read your book,” she responds, rolling her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It’s a good day for Josh. Actually, it’s been a pretty good week. He’s been sleeping well, eating well, and making it across his apartment without help. There’s still a lot of pain, and nothing comes easily, but Donna can tell that he’s turned a corner of sorts. While he is still frequently exhausted, she can see that his mind is again brimming with unbounded energy that his body cannot yet expel.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Hence the fixation on physics, she supposes. Is it enough to learn about energy and matter?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> When she comes back with his lunch, he’s deeply engrossed in the beginning chapters of the book. “This book was written ten years ago,” he says, not looking up as she places the plate on the table next to him, “and there are so many questions in it that have been answered in just the past few years. Can you imagine what we might know ten years from now?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I don’t even know what we know now, but I’m sure it’s fascinating,” Donna mutters, picking up her bag from its spot by the front door. “I’m headed to the office to do a few things and grab some things. Let me know if you need me to pick anything up.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “If you wanted to make a run to the Library of Congress, there’s a book referenced in here that I’d really like to read…” Josh says offhandedly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna’s hand is on the doorknob, but she stops. “I don’t think I can just go check a book out of the Library of Congress.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Why not?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Normal people aren’t allowed to take things off of the premises. Believe me, I’ve checked,” Donna says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh rolls his eyes. “I’m not normal people, I’m the deputy White House chief of staff. I’m pretty sure that means I get Library of Congress privileges.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes, but I’m normal people and I’d be the one checking something out for you,” Donna protests. “And anyway, isn’t it an ethical violation to use your position for your own personal benefit?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Don’t lecture me about ethics, Donnatella.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ll stop when you get some,” she teases. “Seriously though, anything I should pick up?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh puts down the book and raises his eyebrows. She knows that look. She knows it means he’s about to ask for something that he shouldn’t really have. “Look, I know this might break rule number three…” he starts, and before she says anything, he butts in with, “I really think the regulations here have gotten out of hand.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to be a Democrat if you complain about regulations.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> This makes him chuckle. “Fair enough. But you know Congressman Brennan? Who I was chief of staff for before working for Hoynes? He just published a memoir and I’d really like to read it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna knows this; in fact, there’s a signed copy of the book sitting on the top of Josh’s wardrobe. Congressman Brennan may now be retired and living back in Connecticut, but he is certainly not ignorant of the events at Rosslyn, and his long note scribbled on the front cover is imbued with wishes for a speedy recovery. Donna never met Congressman Brennan—he retired before the Bartlet campaign, before she learned about the ins and outs of the House from Josh’s long-winded rants—but from his note, she thinks she might like him. Maybe she shouldn’t have read the note, as it could have been rather personal, but she tells herself that she is just looking out for Josh.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Yes, it is breaking rule number four (not rule number three, although she’s as of yet undecided on whether she wants to correct him). But he’s been doing so much better that she wonders if it might not hurt to bend the rules. He can’t get inordinately stressed out about reading things that happened five years ago, can he?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Okay, I’ll bring you the book this evening on two conditions,” she says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Anything,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hmm, maybe I should make that six conditions.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She laughs and puts her hand on the doorknob. “First, when we take your blood pressure this evening I want to see that it’s down. Or at least that it hasn’t gone up.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ll try my best on that score,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And secondly, I’m sick and tired of theoretical physics. So if you can shut up about that topic for 72 hours—and not just to me, but to everyone around you who is similarly sick and tired of theoretical physics—then I’ll let you read it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh purses his lips but nods in agreement. “Am I allowed to talk about politics then?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, you need to expand your interests,” Donna says. “Is there any other topic you might have a marginal interest in? So I can get you out of this physics tunnel-vision you’ve been stuck in?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He shrugs and grimaces at the movement. “Maybe. I’ll think of something.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Okay,” she says softly. He’s really much better than he had been the previous week, but every part of his demeanor is still heavy with the exhaustion of existence. “Take a nap this afternoon, will you?” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Wouldn’t want to break rule six,” he says, picking up the physics book again. “Yeah, I will.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ll be back by three,” she says, resisting an overwhelming urge to take him into her arms, to touch him, to reassure herself that as fragile as he seems, he won’t break entirely when he is out of her sight. It’s irrational, she knows, but she worries that something awful will happen any time he is out of her sight. Anxiety leftover, she assumes, from that horrible night where something awful did happen. “You’ll be alright?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Go, Donna. I’ll be fine,” he says. “And by the way, if there’s any new polling data for the California 25th, the Florida 7th, the New Jersey 5th, the Illinois 6th, the…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh…” she warns.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He presses his lips together and settles back. “Fine. It can wait until tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes it can,” she says, opening the door. “Call if you need anything.” With that, she leaves his apartment and heads to work.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> When she comes back, he’s not on the couch but in his bed, still asleep. He looks peaceful, a word that she would never usually associate with Josh. Perhaps it’s good for him, she thinks, that for once in his life, he has to slow down. In a way it’s killing him, but he’d never slow down if he wasn’t forced to. She’s reticent to wake him, knowing that while his previous spell of insomnia has not been repeated, he still is not sleeping as well as he’d like to. But when she reaches for the book on the top of his wardrobe, he stirs and opens his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey,” he says, his voice still in a sleepy daze.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey yourself. How are you feeling?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Objectively shitty, but I’ve been worse,” he says. Josh somehow has simultaneously no pain tolerance and an incredible pain tolerance; he whines all the time but no matter how much pain he is in, he never fails to smile or joke with her. “Anyway, it’s just about time for a new dose of meds, so there’s that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna laughs and picks up the pills and a glass of water from his bedside. “You’re right, take them.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “So did you manage to get the book?” he asks, after swallowing the pills.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I didn’t have to, the congressman sent it himself,” Donna says, holding it out to him. “He even wrote a really lovely note for you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He took the book from her with a bit of an incredulous look on his face. “You’ve been reading my mail?”<br/>“Josh, that was part of my job even before all this! Notice how death threats never ended up on your desk?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah, that’s really a consolation considering the assholes who tried to kill me didn’t even give us the courtesy of a warning,” he mutters.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna bites her lip. Bringing up the frequent death threats his office received maybe wasn’t the best move. The first time she had seen a death threat for Josh, a month or so into the general campaign, she had freaked out and even cried a little, but Josh assured her that it was a very normal part of being in politics and that the Secret Service was highly capable of dealing with the threats. That hadn’t reassured her initially, but after dealing with them at least once a week and usually more, she had gotten used to the derision and vulgarity hurled at Josh over paper. No one had actually tried to hurt Josh. But now, now that someone had in fact tried to kill him (and come painfully close to succeeding), she’s not sure she can look at the death threats in the same way ever again.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He seems to notice the anguish on her face and so he reaches for her hand. “Hey, I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, you don’t need to be sorry,” she says, although she’s afraid her eyes might be watering. “You’re allowed to joke about it. You’re allowed to say whatever you want, whatever will somehow make it feel… okay.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh presses his lips together firmly and looks away from her. “All the same, I’m sorry. None of this is what you signed up for and you’re doing far more than what’s in your job description.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m not doing this as a job,” Donna protests. “I’m doing it because you’re my friend and I care about you and I’m so, so grateful you’re alive and I want to do what I can to keep it that way.” The words come out in a rush before she even realizes she’s saying them, and a tear or two slides down her face in the same fashion, outside of her control.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh doesn’t know what to say, but his mouth works as if it’s trying to respond. Finally, something comes out, although it’s more in the form of a joke than anything else. “You’re sure the chance to boss me around doesn’t have anything to do with it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Doesn’t hurt,” she responds quickly, almost too quickly. It’s a relief to be light and humorous again. “Anyway, just because I’m letting you read this book does not mean that rule four is null and void.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Fair enough,” he agrees. “You know, I thought of a new topic to read about.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Oh thank God.” No more theoretical physics, or at least not the constant barrage of super string theory or whatever else he wouldn’t shut up about. “What is it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ve been stuck inside for seven weeks, with no end in sight, so if you’ve got anything about the outdoors…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, when have you ever cared about the outdoors?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’d like to think of myself as an outdoorsman, or at least I will be once you let me out of here,” he says. “But you’re not allowed to tell the president, or I might never hear the end of it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna smirks. “Oh, I will be holding that over you for a very long time.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “But you’ll get me more books?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Anything to shut you up about theoretical physics.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh grins at her. “I’ll keep my end of the bargain for now, but believe me when I say that as soon as 72 hours is up, you will be hearing about the theory of everything.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna rolls her eyes, but she can’t deny that listening to Josh’s voice, even if he’s ranting about theoretical physics, makes her feel just a little bit better.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Rule Number Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em>Rule #2: Visitors must be approved and cannot be work-related</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m really not so sure about this, Josh,” Donna says as she surveys the living room. “First, we’re going to have to drag your TV out of the bedroom and back into here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh takes a look back at her from his usual perch on the couch. “Sam can do it, he’s done it before. And anyway, now that I can, you know, actually move between the bed and the couch, I don’t really need it in there anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And your apartment is pretty small to have that many people here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Sam, Toby, CJ, Charlie, you, and me. Six people. Easy. I’ve had that many people over here many times.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna sighs. “Still, you’re practically hosting a party and I’m not sure…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “All we want to do is watch the closing ceremony for the Olympics, Donna. I missed the opening one because I somehow slept through it…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Because you were coming off of several nights of insomnia…” Donna interjects.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “…and while the closing ceremony is never as good, it’s still a good enough excuse to you know, actually see people for once instead of hearing their voices over the phone. This only happens every four years, Donna, we have to take advantage of it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna sits down across from him. “The Olympics take place every two years.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No one cares about the winter Olympics,” he replies flippantly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “My cousin went to the winter Olympics.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? In what?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Cross-country skiing.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Also known as how you get to school in Wisconsin,” Josh jokes. “He any good?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shrugs. “I mean, yeah. He went to the Olympics. He would have won a bronze if it weren’t for the Scandinavians.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And by that you mean…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “He came 13th…” she says, letting her mouth fall into a pout, “but there were only two people ahead of him who weren’t from Scandinavia! I mean honestly, all the people who won medals were from Norway and that just indicates to me that something there was rigged.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> This makes Josh chuckle—laughing still causes his chest to burn. Of all the things the bullet has temporarily robbed him of, that is one of the worst. “Donnatella, aren’t you Scandinavian?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m Irish and Italian, Josh. Not every midwesterner is a blond-haired, blue-eyed Swede, you know?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He tilts his head and looks her over. Donna really could be mistaken for a Scandinavian, and even if he hadn’t known about her midwestern roots, she embodies wholesome midwestern farm girl. “I’ve seen the census data,” he says, “and unless something has changed in the last ten years…” His eyes light up with a look that Donna recognizes as trouble. “Donna, do you know if there are census prelims ready? We’re not going to be redistricting yet but they could help with strategy…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna rolls her eyes. It is far too easy for him to get back to politics, even if they’re speaking of something completely unrelated. “You know, if I’m letting you have everyone over tonight, you damn well better not talk about work.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Do we have anything else in common?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’ve spent between twelve and twenty hours a day with these people for the last two years, so for your sake, I hope so,” she says. “You do realize that you’re literally the only one of anybody coming who has had the time to watch the Olympics, so you might be the only one who cares.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh smiles. “Yeah, my job lately has been to keep President Bartlet updated on them. He’s interested in all the obscure sports, though, and I honestly couldn’t care less about fencing or water polo. But hey, it was something to watch that wasn’t informercials or soap operas, so I’m not complaining.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna stands up and pats him on the shoulder. “Anything to keep you entertained,” she says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It’s a Sunday, and while there is rarely a day off at the White House, everyone invited agrees to come over by five. CJ and Sam both offer to bring takeout, but Donna insists on preparing food instead, if only so she doesn’t have to fight with Josh about his diet yet again. She spends the day preparing a meal for everyone alone, although she does manage to get Josh seated at the kitchen table with a vegetable peeler so that he can contribute in some way. She’s not sure if he has ever peeled a vegetable before, but he seems eager to help.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You know,” he says, as she pours a cutting board full of vegetables into the minestrone she’s started, “usually when people watch sporting events together, they eat food that’s actually enjoyable.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna rolls her eyes. “Are you trying to say something about my cooking?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Not at all— your cooking is far better than I expected it to be,” he corrects. “I don’t necessarily always like it…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Because you have the tastebuds of a five-year-old.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “…but I won’t deny that you’re competent. Still, I was kind of expecting wings and beer and that kind of…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She doesn’t even look at him this time. “No fried food, and absolutely no beer. Not until you’re off the pain meds.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It just doesn’t seem fair to deprive everyone else.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna turns around and looks at him, and while his tone is joking, he seems genuine. It’s incredibly baffling sometimes, how Josh acts like he would never spare a thought for others, and yet once in a while reveals that he thinks about nothing but the safety and happiness of the people that he loves. “I would argue that it doesn’t seem fair that they all escaped unscathed and you’re the one who had to go through fourteen hours of surgery and you’re the one who is still suffering.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His mouth drops open and his head falls into his hands, and Donna thinks she’s made a mistake. She rushes over to him, leaving the soup, and sits in the chair next to him. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, no, you might be right,” he says softly. “If it had been someone else instead of me, I can’t even imagine how guilty I’d feel.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Not everyone has Josh’s extreme guilt complex, but Donna knows that noting that won’t be helpful. “All to say, compared to what you’ve gone through, I don’t think anyone will be too upset to be deprived of wings and beer for a night.” She gets up again and pats his back. “Thanks for peeling the vegetables. If you keep up the good work, I might actually put you on salary.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His nod indicates that he’s still somewhere else.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It isn’t an easy afternoon. Josh’s pain suddenly spikes, and when he goes to lie down for a nap, Donna can hear him move and groan in his sleep. It’s probably another nightmare, and Donna wants to help him, but after the way she screwed up earlier, she doesn’t think her presence will do any good. She sits in his living room and lets her face fall a little more every time she hears him cry out.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She thinks about his words, about how pained he’d be if someone else had been shot instead of him. She doesn’t have to wonder too much; when Josh found out that the president had also been shot, he had freaked out, despite the fact that the president was the one standing by <em>his</em> bedside. If he’d had to endure the fourteen hours waiting to see if one of his closest friends lived or died, Donna isn’t sure he would have made it. She had barely made it through, and that was while watching every minute of his surgery because she was afraid that if she looked away, she’d never see him alive again.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Even removed several weeks from that awful night, thinking about it instantly brings her back to standing outside of the operating room, watching him bleed out on the table, terrified that she’d never hear his voice again. She isn’t sure if she’ll ever be able to erase that image from her mind. Looking back, she was really remarkably strong throughout those awful hours; if Josh, perpetually high-strung, anxious Josh, had been in her position, watching Toby or CJ or Sam (or her, although she wouldn’t allow herself to assign that kind of self-importance) an inch away from death, he would have been in a ball on the floor within the first hour.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She shouldn’t have said anything. Shouldn’t have allowed him to contemplate the possibility of things worse than his own pain. Shouldn’t have inspired him to consider just how much worse things could have been in an already terrible situation. He’d have come up with those scenarios himself, but she still wishes she hadn’t said anything. Josh’s arrogance and bluster hide a great deal of emotional fragility at the best of times, and this is anything but the best of times.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’ll bounce back, he always does. At least outwardly. She hopes against hope that it’s enough.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> At around four, she knocks on his bedroom door and enters. It’s very clear that if he’s slept at all, it’s been anything but restful. “Hey. How are you doing?” she asks, knowing full well that he’s only going to answer what he wants her to hear.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ve been better,” Josh replies, pushing himself up into a sitting position.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna looks him over; he hasn’t shaved or showered yet and his eyes are bleary with unrestful sleep. “We can cancel if you need to.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He lets out a heavy grunt and sigh as he moves his legs to sit on the edge of the bed. “No, don’t cancel. I need to see everyone.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His grimace breaks her heart. “Josh, I’m serious, if you need to…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No!” he shouts suddenly, and Donna is taken aback. He looks down and shakes his head and repeats, “No,” more quietly. “I have to see them. I have to know that they’re okay.” He pushes himself up from the bed and takes a few slow steps toward the bathroom, but his mind is clearly anywhere but where his body is. “Sorry, I just…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She puts a hand on his arm. “It’s okay. I know.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His eyebrows are raised high and there’s sadness in his eyes, and she suddenly doesn’t know anymore. When their eyes meet, he looks away quickly and mumbles, “I need to shower.”<br/>“Okay. I’m right here if you need anything.” Her heart aches as she lets go of him and watches him slowly make his way to the bathroom. Everyone has had to go through some sort of emotional reckoning since the events at Rosslyn, but Josh’s, she imagines, may be the hardest of all.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She is finishing setting up a dinner buffet of sorts when Josh comes out of the shower. He looks better; his eyes are still red and puffy, but he’s clean-shaven, wearing a casual sweater and jeans instead of sweatpants, and more energetic looking than before. “Smells good,” he says, taking a seat at the kitchen table again. “Anything I can help with?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She doesn’t have a chance to answer since a knock sounded at the door. She is surprised by how fast Josh gets up to answer it; perhaps it isn’t actually a quick motion, but he seems jumpy and eager and with more energy than he’d seemed to have earlier. She was planning on getting the door herself, but Josh seems anxious to get there, and so she pulls the plates out of the cabinet and lets him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam is at the door. He had promised to come over early to help move the television and create enough seating space in the living room for everyone, feats Donna isn’t sure she can do on her own. “Hey Josh!” he says eagerly. “You’re looking good!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You know, every time you say that I get a little closer to believing it,” Josh replies, clapping his friend on the back. “But normally everyone delights in telling me that I look like shit so I have to say, it’s nice to hear something else for once.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam grins and drops a bag by the door. It’s undoubtedly filled with briefing books and memos and other things Josh really shouldn’t have, but will eagerly consume if given the opportunity. “Can’t believe you conned Donna into letting us all come over.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What can I say, I’ve become quite adept at breaking the rules,” Josh smirks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I heard that!” Donna shouts from the kitchen. “You’re not breaking the rules anyway, not until work comes up.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh takes a seat on the couch and turns his head toward the kitchen. In an obnoxiously loud voice clearly directed at Donna, he says, “Hey Sam, tell me more about this executive order that says rules be damned, I can talk about work whenever I want.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna has half a mind to be annoyed with him, but she’s so relieved that his mood has lifted and that his humor, however defensive it really is, has returned. “Even President Bartlet wouldn’t dare break the rules,” she shoots back, entering the living room with a grin. “Hey Sam.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “How do you put up with this idiot?” Sam asks, giving Donna a friendly hug.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Honestly, I’m not sure.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh rolls his eyes and leans back, trying not to let his exhaustion show.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Need me to move anything?” Sam asks, and Donna sends him to get the TV and reinstall it in the living room while she moves a couple chairs from the kitchen table to provide enough seating for everyone.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> While they set up, Josh watches the door, his foot tapping impatiently and his hands seemingly unable to stop moving. Not all of the anxiety and nervous energy of the afternoon has left him yet. When another knock sounds on the door, he’s off the couch in an instant, despite the pain that shoots through his back and chest as he stands.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He relaxes when he sees CJ at the door. “Josh!” she exclaims, grinning from ear to ear. “You look good!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Is it bad that I’m starting to miss people telling me I look like shit?” he remarks, opening the door all the way. CJ is about to go in for a hug, but pulls herself back. “Hey, I won’t break,” he reassures her, and softly pulls her into a hug. He holds on just a little too long, but the contact calms him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m sorry I haven’t been over to see you in a few weeks, it’s just it’s been so busy, and Donna’s rules…” she steps back and puts her hands on his forearms, not quite breaking the connection. “It’s so good to see you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh smiles wordlessly in response. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Before he can move the few steps back toward the couch, Toby knocks on the already opened door. “Hey Josh,” he says. His face is impassive, but he too reaches out to touch Josh’s arm in a brotherly way.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey, aren’t you forgetting to tell me how good I look?” Josh teases. CJ looks like she’s about to nudge him, but thinks better of it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I am many things,” Toby responds dryly, “but I am not a liar.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh chuckles and takes a few steps over to lean on the back of the couch before his legs can give out on him. “I can always count on Toby to tell me the truth.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re feeling better though?” Toby asks with sincerity. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh remembers very little of that night at Rosslyn, but he’s heard about how Toby found him, how Toby held him until they could get help, how Toby probably saved his life. He can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for Toby to be in that position, and so Josh looks him in the eye with equal sincerity and full of gratitude. “Yeah. I’ve still got a ways to go, but I can make it across my apartment on my own without immediately needing a nap, so I’d say that’s an improvement.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “We miss you, you know… all of us. Leo, the president…” Toby says softly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I miss it and all of you more than you know.” Josh looks down at his feet, but quickly turns his head when he hears another knock on the door.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> CJ opens the door to greet Charlie, who is wide-eyed and a little anxious. While Josh doesn’t necessarily spend much time with Charlie normally, when he had heard from Zoey that Charlie was struggling with a lot of guilt after the shooting, he had insisted on inviting the kid over. Josh knows all about misattributed guilt, and he’d really rather keep his monopoly on it. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Charlie!” he exclaims. “Glad you could make it!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Charlie smiles and closes the door behind him. “Thanks for having me,” he says, still looking a little out of his depth. “You’re looking good.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh moves around from the back of the couch to seat himself with a heavy sigh. “You know, it’s not a good look when White House officials lie,” he jokes, “and even worse when they’re all telling the same lie.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I mean it!” Charlie protests. “I mean, last time I saw you…” he lets the sentence fall away. Josh doesn’t remember seeing Charlie at all since Rosslyn, so it must have been pretty bad at the time. When he thinks about it, CJ and Toby haven’t seen him for quite a while either; the last time CJ had come over to his apartment, he hadn’t managed to make it out of bed, and Toby hasn’t come over since the day Josh was discharged from the hospital. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey, it’s alright,” Josh reassures. “I’m really going to be okay.” Please don’t feel guilty about this, his tone silently begs.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Charlie looks away and presses his lips together. He doesn’t seem entirely comforted, but he finally nods. “It’s good to see you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna emerges from the kitchen and smiles brightly at the full crowd in the living room. “Food should be ready in 20 minutes or so, and there are drinks in the fridge if anyone wants anything.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam, who has been fiddling with the TV and trying to get it hooked up again in its original spot, finally manages to get it to turn on. “You’ve got to be a little impressed I managed to figure that out,” he says proudly as he gets up off the floor.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It couldn’t have been that hard,” Josh says offhandedly. “I got it to work when I moved in and I’m impossible with technology.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna puts a cup of water in his hand—he’s still not allowed to drink anything enjoyable—and rolls her eyes. “No, <em>I</em> set that one up when you bought it after the campaign.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I think you’re rewriting history here, Donna, I definitely…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, you called me late in the evening during the transition freaking out because you were going to miss a Mets game if you couldn’t get it hooked up. It wasn’t even a real game, it was a rerun of one of their few victories from five years ago.”<br/>“It was a good game! And anyway, they’re doing well, they’re in the playoffs…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam changes the channel on the TV to NBC and grins before Josh can start ranting about baseball. “Well, I think we’re ready to enjoy the ceremony.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “How many medals did we get this year, CJ?” Toby asks. His face is impassive as ever, but there is a tone of teasing in his voice.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “How was I supposed to know that? Honestly, the press should have better questions to ask than…” CJ sputters.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh interrupts. “Oh, there’s a story behind this.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s nothing, it’s just…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby bites his lip. “CJ was giving a briefing and a reporter asked her what the medal count for this year’s Olympic team was. And what was your answer, CJ?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She stares down at her lap sheepishly and mutters something under her breath.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What was that, CJ?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Slightly louder, she mumbles, “Three…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Three?” Josh exclaims. “Wow CJ, I really should be watching your briefings more often.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Look, they asked me how many medals there were, I thought they meant different kinds of medals. You know, gold, silver, bronze! I didn’t know how many medals our Olympic team won, that’s not really in my wheelhouse.Why would you even ask that at a White House press briefing!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh chuckles. “They were trying to throw you off. Reporters are cruel creatures sometimes.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You would know, or have you forgotten the secret plan to fight inflation?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Absolutely not, mi amor,” CJ laughs.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh sighs. “Still. Three medals? Really? Donna, please let me watch C-SPAN again so I don’t miss another instance of CJ trying to brief the press about sports. God help her if they ask about who is going to be in the World Series.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Which one is that again?” CJ asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Baseball!” Toby and Josh both exclaim with exasperation. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> CJ gets up from the chair and walks towards the kitchen. “I stand in front of a room of vaguely hostile reporters every single day, and yet I put up with more shit from you two than I ever do from them.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You realize you report to me.” This is from Toby, who says it with a cool and slightly terrifying tone.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hence why I put up with your shit,” CJ retorts. She jerks her head toward Josh. “I don’t know why I put up with him though.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “My charm and good looks, I assume.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> CJ rolls her eyes. “Clearly not enough people have told you that you look terrible lately.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh throws his hands up in the air, although the action comes at a cost and he lets out a uncontrollable groan of pain as he does it. He cringes and quickly speaks to try and distract his friends who are now staring at him. “And there it is, ladies and gentlemen. The truth comes out.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> While Josh doesn’t seem concerned or offended by anything that was said, the rest of the room subdues quickly as his sudden grimace doesn’t escape anyone. The banter flying had seemed so normal, almost as if nothing had ever happened, but the reminder of the very real consequences of that awful night is too salient to ignore.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna had been enjoying watching the conversation but she instantly notices the change in the room. She knows that Josh doesn’t want his friends to worry about him or dwell on the fact that he’s still struggling while they’re not, at least not physically. She stands up and cuts through the tension with a, “Food is ready. Anybody hungry?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Starving,” CJ says, looking relieved to have a way out of her earlier comment. “I forgot to eat lunch.” She follows Donna into the kitchen, and most everybody else shuffles behind her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam doesn’t follow the rest of them, instead moving to sit beside Josh on the couch. “Need me to get you some food?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Nah, Donna will grab me some,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re okay? That looked painful.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh nods. “I’m fine, just moved in the wrong way. Not a big deal. I wish everyone wouldn’t act like it was.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It is a big deal, Josh,” Sam says softly. “We’ve all… everybody is so happy to see you again, but I don’t think it’s easy for anybody. It won’t be until the image of you bleeding out in front of me isn’t burned on my mind anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Sam, I…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Toby and CJ haven’t seen you in weeks. Charlie hasn’t seen you since you were in the hospital. They’ve all been so busy they haven’t had time to entirely process what happened, and seeing you still struggle is…” Sam takes a deep breath. “I thought you were going to die, Josh. You were delirious, you said you needed to go to New Hampshire, and I thought… I thought that would be the last thing I’d hear you say.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Even a bullet won’t shut me up,” Josh says quietly. He wants it to be a joke, but his voice is thick and troubled.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam doesn’t respond, instead reaching for his friend’s hand and squeezing it as if to reassure himself that Josh is still there.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Sometimes I think about… what if it had been you, or Toby, or CJ, or Leo,” Josh continues. “Or Donna. I couldn’t have…” He swallows and blinks, hoping that his eyes don’t look as wet as they feel. “Sometimes I dream that it was you, or one of them, and I can’t…” He shrugs finally. He’s not Sam or Toby, he doesn’t have the words to describe how terrifying even the prospect of losing one of them is. “It’s good to see you all tonight. I needed to know that you’re still here.” He shakes his head and chuckles. “I’m sorry to worry you. You know I enjoy attention but this might have been a step too far.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam doesn’t quite laugh, but a smile makes its way to the edges of his face. “We’re gonna be alright, you know that? You, me, everyone who was there…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah,” Josh responds softly. He isn’t sure he believes Sam, but he forces himself to smile reassuringly. “Hey, tell Donna to please suspend rule number two tonight. She won’t hear it from me, but if we can talk about work freely it might feel more normal. More okay.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ll try my best,” Sam responds. Voices are approaching, and everyone else is beginning to fill back into the living room. “I’m going to get some food.” He stands up and squeezes Josh’s shoulder firmly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The break in the evening seems to have relieved the earlier tension in the room, and as the ceremony begins on TV, the group seems to relax to some extent. It doesn’t escape Josh’s notice, however, that everyone takes turns sending him worried glances when they think that he isn’t aware. Sam’s words echo in his head and he considers how long it’s been since everyone has seen him normal, seen him acting like himself. Too long. And while he isn’t fully himself yet, he can try his best to be for reassurance’s sake. It may require that he breaks a few rules, but that is a risk he’s willing to take.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey,” he says, as the ceremony pauses for a commercial break. “I’ve tried to resist asking all night, but I’m about to explode if I don’t get an update about where we’re at with the midterms.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shoots him a look but doesn’t say anything. Sam must have been able to talk her down.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Everyone glances around the room, clearly afraid of the wrath of Donna. Finally, Toby takes the plunge. “Twelve races are truly toss-ups. There’s another eight we think we might be able to flip if we can fund enough and register enough voters. We’re going to lose the Pennsylvania 1st unless a miracle happens, and apparently the DNC didn’t even bother to run a candidate in the Wisconsin 3rd so there’s some nutcase whose priority is legislating mandatory veganism running instead of an actual candidate.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That should be a toss-up race, how did we drop the ball on that one?” Josh exclaims.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You think I’m not asking the exact same question?” Toby rolls his eyes. “Anyway, if don’t lose any more seats than we’re already gonna lose and we somehow manage to win eleven out of the twelve toss-ups or maybe flip a few of the seats we have a shot at, we could have a narrow house majority.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “But it’s an uphill battle,” Sam adds with a sigh.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shakes his head. “And the goodwill approval we got from being shot at is rapidly disappearing and limited to the executive branch. What’s the rating now, anyway?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Favorables are hovering around 58, unfavorables at 36,” CJ says. “Favorables were at 81 the week after, which was of course, soft, but it was nice to know that for that week only 20 percent of the country was willing to express their hatred for us.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh’s eyes grew big. “81? You’re telling me we had an 81 percent approval rating and no one bothered to tell me?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m pretty sure I did try,” Toby said, “but you were awfully drugged up at the time.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “81,” Josh murmurs, leaning further back into the sofa. “People don’t seem to like us when we’re actually governing, but they sure seem to like us when we’re out of commission. Maybe we should take a page from the Republican book and not bother working hard to make this country better.” The ceremony is back on, but no one is really watching. “How about the Senate?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “We might net two seats. Washington’s an almost certain get, and Michigan and Minnesota look good, but we’re weak in Florida and Nevada. We’re not going to win it back unless Indiana and Mississippi miraculously decide to see the light,” Toby muses.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “So we’ve already given up on having a congressional majority,” Josh sighs. “See, if I was there I’d…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> CJ rolls her eyes. “You overestimate your influence.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s what I’m always telling him,” Donna interjects. “But he’s got an ego the size of Montana and…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Of all the states you could choose to compare my ego to, you choose Montana?” Josh shoots her a look, but there’s a smile playing at the edges of his lips. He’s enjoying himself, and even if it breaks rule number two, Donna doesn’t want to stop him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It was that or Alaska,” Donna responds with a shrug.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You know what state has the most ego? California. If you want a good insult…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam shakes his head. “California’s the most populous state in the union and has a higher GDP than Poland, we can afford to have a little ego. Remind me what Connecticut has done for the country again?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Nothing, except house all the people who can’t handle New York,” Toby says pointedly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It could be worse,” Josh protests. “I could be from Ohio.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey, leave the Midwest out of whatever weird coastal feud you have going on,” CJ mutters, rolling her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I thought you’d have a little California loyalty at this point, CJ.” Sam takes a sip of his drink. “You’ve benefitted enough from the endless summer and…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Midwestern loyalty never dies,” Donna interjects. “You can take a girl out of the Midwest, but you can’t take the Midwest out of the girl.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Charlie raises an eyebrow. “I’d like to point out that for all of your apparent respective state pride, you all live in DC.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes, we all moved to this city which, by the way, is literally built on a swamp, for one very good reason,” Toby says. “I’d like to note though that if it weren’t for Hamilton and Jefferson and some backroom deal, we’d still be in New York.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “See, I think ‘ego the size of New York’ works better than Montana,” Josh says. “Speaking of Montana, please tell me we stopped that mining bill from passing the House? It won’t look good if the President is forced to veto it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> This launches a spirited discussion about new bills and wrangling legislators. Donna doesn’t catch all of it—she’s been in the office too sporadically to be fully updated—but she watches as Josh lights up with excitement in a way that she hasn’t seen since before that awful August night. This is what he really loves; he may get excitable over theoretical physics or the outdoors or any number of things, but his passion for politics is truly unmatched. And, she notes, being with the friends who have become his family brings him joy. Even from the start of the campaign, she had noticed a strong bond developing in this group, but somewhere in the midst of the 18-hour White House days, they had become a family. And Josh, who has no one else left besides his mother, needs this family more than anything.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She’s incredibly grateful for all of them: for Charlie, who lets Josh be a big brother, for CJ, who teases him and pushes him and is one of the few to recognize how sweet and caring he is beneath his arrogance and apparent ego, for Toby, who argues and fights and loves him all the same, who frantically searched for him and saved his life, and for Sam, who is the brother Josh never had, the steady support and source of good humor and strength that Josh won’t acknowledge he needs. He needs them, and they need him, and she thinks of what might have happened that night and her chest tightens. He’s here, they’re all here, and life will go on.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> This was why he needed them over, she realizes. This is why he refused to cancel when he really should have. This is why Sam asked her to relax about the rules for the night. And this is why she’s allowing it, even though to her well trained eye he’s exhausted and in pain and really should be asleep. But he’s alive.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’s alive, against all odds. Everyone in this room experienced that night, knows how slim those odds were, knows how close they came to losing him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna doesn’t pay much attention to the conversation, but takes in the almost-normalcy of it all. For the first time, she sees beyond all of this. Someday, the shadow of Rosslyn will not be a constant specter. Josh will be back to before, yelling her name and running all over the hill and expending seemingly endless energy. She closes her eyes and lets out a sigh she didn’t know she’d been holding in.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The evening doesn’t last as long as Josh might have liked it to, but it is obvious to both Donna and Sam that he is starting to fade around the time that the ceremony (which none of them actually paid attention to) ends. “Well I don’t know about you all,” Sam says, after sharing a loaded glance with Donna, “but I’m probably going to be up at four tomorrow morning with a mountain of work to get through, and it would be nice to get a solid six hours of sleep for once in my life.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Now that sounds like a fantasy,” CJ says, but she gets the hint and stands up.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I get twelve hours of sleep a night now, and all it took was getting shot,” Josh says, letting a smirk play at the edges of his mouth. It’s light enough that it doesn’t bring back the painful tension of earlier.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna rolls her eyes. “Before you know it, you’ll be back to your solid three a night.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s if I’m lucky and actually make it home,” Josh replies. Everyone stands up and Josh grudging accepts Sam’s outstretched hand to get up from his spot. “Thank you all for coming tonight. You’re welcome over at any time…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, you’re welcome over as long as you check with me first,” Donna interjects, although she doesn’t hide her smile.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> CJ reaches out to hug Josh gently. “Come back soon, okay? I think the Hill is getting a little too comfortable without Bartlet’s Bulldog to whip them into shape.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh smirks. “You better believe they won’t know what’s coming.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby wordlessly pats him on the back and heads toward the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says. “I need to run some language by you for the housing subsidies bill.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam and Donna begin to move the chairs back to their original places, leaving Josh and Charlie to stand by the door.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Thanks for having me tonight,” Charlie says. “It’s really good to see you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Any time,” Josh says. “I hadn’t heard from you at all, but Zoey called me. She said you were having a hard time with it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Charlie looks down at his feet. “Yeah. I just… they shot at the President because of me. They hit you because of me, and I…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Look,” Josh interrupts. “I know where you’re coming from. You may not believe me, but I know exactly how you feel.” He won’t bring up Joanie, not now, but the memory has been particularly salient for him in recent months. “We serve at the pleasure of the president, and there’s a certain amount of risk that comes with that. You’re going to make people angry no matter what and once in a while, someone will be stupid enough to act on that anger. But despite it all, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. You still walked into the White House the next day, despite everything, didn’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah…” Charlie says quietly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Even though you wanted to quit?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I didn’t want to quit, I just wondered if you all wouldn’t be safer if…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shakes his head. “I got you hired for a reason, Charlie. You’re a special kid. You walked into the White House with your head held high and held up the middle finger to the nazi assholes who tried to kill you. You didn’t surrender. And you go day after day, and you serve the President, and absolutely no one blames you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, I…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I don’t blame you, Charlie. I know that might be hard for you to accept, but I don’t. And anytime you need to hear that again, just call me up.” He’s beginning to tire of standing, but he doesn’t back down. “Tell the president to give you a lunch off for once and come over here if you need to talk.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Charlie looks like he's about to reject the offer, but he smiles and nods. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, thanks Josh.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Anytime,” Josh says. “You’re taking the metro home?” In response to Charlie’s nod, he holds out a bill. “Take a cab instead.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I can’t, I’ll be…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I insist,” Josh says. “It’ll make up for me getting shot in the chest.” There’s a twinkle in his eye that Charlie thankfully recognizes, and he nods in appreciation.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Night,” he says quietly, and closes the door behind him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Once Charlie is gone, Josh collapses back onto the couch, letting exhaustion wash over him. He doesn’t get up to say goodbye to Sam—Sam will be over tomorrow— but he opens his eyes to Donna’s footsteps. “You let me break rule number two,” he murmurs softly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna puts a hand on his shoulder and begins to rub it. “Sam told me you asked.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah. It felt good. I miss it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I know you do,” she says. “You really need to go to bed.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He doesn’t protest this. “Yeah. Think we can make this a weekly thing?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Do you think everyone’s schedules would accommodate this as a weekly thing?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh frowns as he follows Donna slowly to his bedroom. “Probably not. I don’t know, I just needed to see them. To assure myself that they’re all… okay.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I know,” Donna says. “And they all needed to see you. There’s a lot we all still need to process, but I think it’s a good beginning.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He nods as he sits on the edge of his bed. “Donna?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Please let me watch CJ’s briefings. I can’t believe I missed the medal debacle.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “We’ll see,” Donna says, although she can’t stop herself from smiling as she says it.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Rule Number Nine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em>
    <span class="s1">Rule #9: Ask for Help</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The alarm clock on the coffee table mocks her. 6:30 isn’t really that early, but Donna hasn’t gotten up to an alarm in weeks. She groans as she rolls off the couch; Josh’s couch isn’t uncomfortable but it also is not intended to be slept on regularly. She turns off the alarm, folds up the blanket, and moves the pillows back to where they go.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She is going back to work.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She has been in and out of the office for the past several weeks, picking up files, passing on messages, and making sure that no one harasses Josh about work that should be done that he isn’t supposed to be doing. But any leave time she had before has run out, and Josh is physically well enough to be on his own for most of the day. Full time employment beckons, although she figures that without Josh working his absurd hours, full time will be something like a normal nine to five. He’ll complain if he’s left alone longer than that anyway.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She showers quickly—she’s come to appreciate his shower for the strong water pressure and the seemingly unlimited supply of hot water—and dresses. She has very few work outfits here, she realizes; she should stop back at her apartment and get some more. By the end of this, she’ll probably have moved half of her stuff here.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna stops to look at herself in the mirror. She feels like she has aged a decade in the past two months, and while her reflection doesn’t exactly support that, there are dark circles under her eyes and her face is far more pale than it should be this time of year. “A White House tan,” they have all joked, but Donna struggles to remember the last time she’s spent a significant amount of time outside. Her whole self has been thrown into getting Josh better, and loath as she is to admit it, the process is beginning to wear her down.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> But maybe being back at work will help. She isn’t sure how. Frankly, she isn’t sure what she is supposed to be doing considering that the vast majority of her job is organizing Josh’s life, but she’s sure there will be more than enough to catch up on.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She creeps into Josh’s bedroom before she has to leave, hoping that he won’t wake up. She places a glass of water and four pills on his bedside table and takes a long look at him. In the light coming from the hallway and streaming in through the blinds, she can see how pale and sweaty he looks. He is often slightly sweaty when he wakes up, but nothing quite like this.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Against her better instincts of letting him sleep, she reaches out to touch his forehead, alarmed at how warm it is. While she had been warned that the occasional fever wouldn’t be unusual over the course of his recovery, her mind immediately ran through all the things that could possibly be wrong. Infections of all sorts, viruses, a reaction to his drugs… She’s about to call the office for the day and say she can’t come in when he wakes up to her hand brushing against his forehead.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey,” Josh says softly, blinking against the light.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Are you alright?” Donna asks, still trying to decide if his temperature is high enough to immediately take him to the ER.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Give me a minute to figure that out,” he says with a groan.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head and opens one of the drawers of his dresser. It had once held his t-shirts and sweatshirts, but most of those had been stolen by Donna and the drawer had been in turn filled with a pharmacy’s worth of pills and medical supplies. She extracts a thermometer and holds it out to him. “Under your tongue,” she insists.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna, I’m…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You feel like you might have a fever. I just want to make sure before I go.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He groans again and tries to adjust himself in the bed, but the movement induces a coughing fit. This is also not unusual, as he often has to cough in the morning to clear out his lungs, but Donna cringes as he painfully coughs for a full minute before lying back in exhaustion.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Got it all?” she asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Give me the damn thermometer,” he mutters in response.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna turns it on and hands it to him. He is never in a good mood in the mornings, but this morning seems especially bad. She sits on the edge of his bed and rubs his ankle until the thermometer beeps.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He takes it out and looks at it, squinting in the limited light. “99.6,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> A little high, but not nearly as bad as she expected it to be. “Ok. Good. Keep taking it throughout the day.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s fine, I just got hot overnight,” he protests, although his voice catches and he begins to cough again. At Donna’s look, he concedes, “I’ll keep an eye on it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna is satisfied with this answer, but still feels reluctant to stand and leave him. “The nurse should be by at 9, and the physical therapist is coming at 11. Everyone has been informed that you’re working from 12:30 to 3 today, so if you try and call them about work outside of those hours, they should reject your call or they’ll have to face me. I’ll bring you lunch and check in around noon, and then unless something comes up I’ll be back at 5.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re leaving?” he asks, looking overwhelmed with all the information.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “We talked about this.” She squeezes his hand gently. “I’m going back to full-time today. Or normal person full-time, at least.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh nods. “Yeah, right. I just didn’t realize you were starting today.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah. If you’re not feeling…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Go, Donna,” he says. “I’ll be fine. Go to work.” His voice is tight and he doesn’t look like he believes what he’s saying, but he waves her off stiffly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re sure? Everyone will understand if…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Go!” he shouts, and while there isn’t much force behind it, his frustration is clear.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It’s a bad mood, Donna tells herself as she leaves the room. He’s in a bad mood, and she doesn’t need to feel bad for him or indulge his negativity. He always had bad moods, even before he was shot, and now he has every reason to be in a bad mood occasionally. He’ll be better once he’s up and his lungs are clear and his morning meds have kicked in. She doesn’t have to spend her day worrying about him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> That, of course, does not mean that she won’t worry about him anyway.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> When she comes back a little after noon with a sandwich from his favorite deli (topped with more vegetables than he would prefer but still an upgrade from the now ubiquitous salads), he is in his bed rather than his usual spot on the couch. She knocks on his half closed door before entering and putting the food down.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He looks up when she comes in but says nothing. That’s unusual for Josh; he never says nothing.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “How are you doing?” she asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Fine,” he mutters, although he is clearly anything but.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She takes the few steps over to the bed and feels his forehead. He isn’t hot anymore, which is a relief. “Taking your temperature?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The nurse did when she came. It was normal. I was just hot this morning.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She expects him to make a joke or at least make light of it somehow, but he is still stonefaced. “And how was PT?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He presses his lips together and looks way from her. “It was fine.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “All those vocabulary words up there and the best you can come up with is ‘fine’?” Donna teases, hoping that appealing to his ego will help bring him out of this weird funk.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What do you want from me, Donna? It was what it usually is; painful and exhausting and a reminder of all the things I still can’t do. I still can’t get myself up off the floor, we tried for an hour today and I…” he stops talking and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, I just…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna sighs and puts the bag from the deli on the bedside table. “It’s alright. Are you hungry?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Not really.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I brought you a sandwich. It even has meat on it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He doesn’t react much to this, and that worries Donna. “Thanks,” he murmurs. His voice is tight and nasal.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I can guarantee you that Toby’s going to call you at 12:30 on the dot, so you should probably eat now before you get engrossed in work.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah,” he says, although he doesn’t move.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, I don’t have to go back today if…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No!” he says, rather aggressively. This is a mistake because the sudden exhalation of air prompts a coughing fit more aggressive than anything she’s seen since before he was discharged from the hospital. It’s painful to listen to him cough; just to breathe is already painful for him, so the coughing is beyond miserable. She wordlessly hands him a tissue.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That sounds bad, Josh. You sound like you might be getting sick,” she says, when he’s finally caught his breath again. “Do you feel sick?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He glares at Donna.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Look, I know…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, you don’t,” he mutters. “Sure, I feel sick, but not because of some stupid additional made-up ailment you seem to want to label me with. I feel sick because some Nazi put a bullet in my chest and I apparently can’t be left alone for four hours even though I’ve been working my ass off to try and get back to doing the job I love, which I might mention, is the very reason I got shot in the first place. I’m just sick of all of it!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna reaches out to squeeze his hand, but he pulls away from her. “Okay. Josh, if you tell me what’s wrong, I can help you, but remember, rule 9? You have to ask for help if you need it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I don’t,” he protests. “I don’t need your help right now. Go back to work.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh…” She doesn’t believe him. “You need to…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You need to leave me the fuck alone!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She steps back and looks at him in stunned silence which is only interrupted by yet another coughing fit. A million things run through her head, but most of the pity and sympathy she felt for him just a minute prior have been replaced by anger and frustration. How dare he take this out on her when she has sacrificed so much to help him these last months? What gives him the right to treat her like shit after all of this?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Once he is done coughing, he pinches the bridge of his nose and looks up at her. His eyes are wet, and she chooses to believe that it is only a result of the coughing fit. “Sorry,” he says finally, with a scratchy, strained voice.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, you’re right,” she replies, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “I have to go back to work.” She gathers up her bag and doesn’t turn around to look at him again. If she does, she’ll think twice about staying, and she can’t think twice.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> When she arrives back at the White House, she runs into CJ, who, as usual, inquires about Josh. “How is he?” she asks, as Donna flashes her badge to security and heads toward the policy bullpen.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Normally, this question doesn’t bother Donna, considering it’s the question that usually is on her mind at all times anyway. Today, however, it bothers her. “He’s an asshole,” she says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “We all knew that, but…” CJ’s voice trails off. “Donna, is everything alright? Do you need me to go over there and slap some sense into him.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna almost laughs at this, but she remembers how she left him, and even though he really did deserve it, guilt niggles at her and she can’t quite get rid of it. “No, no… he’s just infuriating sometimes.” She turns the corner to head toward her desk. “Don’t say… just let me deal with this for now. Believe me, when he needs a good ass-kicking, you’re the first person I’ll call.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> CJ squeezes Donna’s forearm. “Okay. If you need to talk, you know where to find me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna heads to her desk and tries, unsuccessfully, not to worry. He’ll be fine. The fact that he hasn’t called her is simultaneously frustrating and reassuring. She doesn’t really want to talk to him, but maybe hearing his voice, knowing that he actually is as fine as he swears he is, she might be able to get rid of the guilt that seems to be growing with every minute of the day.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She passes by Toby’s and Sam’s offices without having any real reason to, just to see if they might be on the phone with him. Neither of them are; Toby is three drafts deep on his latest attempt to rewrite the Bill of Rights in order to punish hate groups, while Sam is frantically coordinating the numbers for House races and determining where to increase or drop support. Both are perfectly good tasks to be completing, but considering the amount of time they usually spend calling Josh, Donna can’t help but wonder if something else is going on.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> If anything, he may just be being an asshole to everyone around him, driving everyone away. And wouldn’t that be typical?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Maybe her intense frustration with him would have diminished by now if she could get him and his odd behavior and the unsettling paleness and the unprovoked (and frankly unusual) anger out of her mind. Josh yells at people all the time, it’s how he gets things done, but not angrily. Not like that. Not at her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Get a grip, she tells herself. Get back to work. Sometimes men are assholes who expect that you’ll drop everything to take care of them, and usually they’re right because you let yourself get walked all over. He’s probably pissed because you’re finally back at work and he’s not, and he’s taking that out on you, and it isn’t fair to you. You’re abandoning all your dreams to pay for a medical degree you’ll never see the benefits of, and putting up with the abuse that comes along with that. And what’s worse, you’re letting yourself do it again.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> But as much as she chides herself, as much as she wishes she could push down her worries and forget about Josh and his anger and his pain and the way he’s taking it out on her, she can’t let it go. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She takes calls, puts together briefing books with additional research, pulls memos, and never quite gets his pale, sweaty face, his tired eyes, and the sound of his pained coughing out of her mind.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby comes by her desk that afternoon, which strikes her as odd. He’s not an infrequent visitor to the policy corner of the building, but with Josh gone, there’s little reason for him to come over himself. She turns around at the sound of him clearing his throat.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna,” he says slowly, “do you know why Josh isn’t taking my calls?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She takes a glance at the clock on the wall. “Because it’s 3:30 and his working hours ended at 3,” she says flippantly, hoping that neither her worry nor her annoyance with him shows through.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You and I both know…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She cuts him off. “You know the rules, Toby.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah, and I also know Josh and his propensity to blatantly ignore the rules.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Doesn’t she know it, she thinks with a roll of her eyes. “Well, I suppose I’ve finally gotten it into his thick head that the rules are there for his own good.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “He might be sleeping- he was awfully tired when I saw him earlier…” Donna rambles on, not looking at Toby.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby takes another step toward her desk. “Donna, he wasn’t answering an hour ago, either.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Like I said, he might have fallen asleep…” She doesn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. She can’t recall a day where Josh hasn’t worked for every minute he’s allowed to, regardless of how tired he is.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby clearly doesn’t believe her either. “I just… wanted to make sure you knew.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah, thanks,” Donna says. Her mind is racing. “I’m sure it’s fine, I’ll give him a call to check in.” She doesn’t bother to turn and watch Toby walk away.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She steels herself before picking up the phone. Josh won’t want her to just call to check in, not after earlier… She digs through the papers on her desk and finds a memo she can come up with a question about. It’s moot anyway, because the phone rings away and there is no answer. It goes to his voicemail, and instead of being comforting, it causes her chest to clench. The logical answer is her first answer, that he’s just asleep and doesn’t have the phone in the room with him, but she doesn’t believe that.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna pushes away her still burning anger and stands up. “I have to go,” she announces to no one in particular. Josh has always been her only supervisor, and Josh isn’t here. She picks up her bag, puts on her coat, and tries to restrain herself from running.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The drive back seems to take ages, even though Georgetown isn’t that far and the traffic hasn’t yet picked up for the evening rush hour. Donna lets her imagination run wild with all the things that could possibly be wrong. The worst comes to mind far too easily; it’s not hard to imagine when she’s seen him a heartbeat away from death. She’s never told Josh about that night, about how overwhelmed with anxiety she was, about how she watched a machine breathe for him and saw his heart as doctors tried to save him. But the images are burned into her mind.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna parks the car and skips half the steps as she runs up to his front door. The key to his apartment has fallen to the bottom of her purse, and she digs around for it, briefly considering breaking down the door, before she finds it and bursts into the apartment.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh!” she calls as she enters. He isn’t sitting in his usual spot on the couch, and the coffee table is absent of its usual mess of books and papers. In fact, it doesn’t look like he’s worked at all today.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She doesn’t bother taking off her coat or shoes, instead rushing to his bedroom. She can feel her heart skip a beat when she sees his bed empty. He wasn’t sleeping. She turns around the room, hoping she missed something, hoping she’ll see him seated somewhere, too engrossed in a book to respond.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Instead, she hears a painful cough coming from the bathroom.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna’s very worst fear is assuaged, but she is hardly comforted. She throws open the door to the bathroom and feels her heart sink.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh is on the floor, curled up in a ball, in the throes of yet another coughing fit. He doesn’t look up at her, but she can tell just how bloodshot his eyes are. His gray t-shirt is sweat-soaked, but that isn’t the cause of the smell that makes Donna wrinkle her nose. Some of the vomit made it into the toilet, but some of it is in a vile puddle on the floor next to him; he seems to curl away from it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She doesn’t say anything, instead falling to the floor beside him and wordlessly helping him sit up against the wall. She squeezes his hand until he can stop coughing. He feels feverish, far worse than this morning, and she can’t tell if the snot all over is face is just from crying or if there’s something worse going on.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> When his breath is normal again, although every rise and fall of his chest seems to be painful, she looks him in the eye. “Tell me what happened,” she says, taking care that her tone is not accusatory.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I didn’t make it in time,” he says. His voice sounds even worse than it had that morning.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You had to throw up,” she translates, rubbing his back. “And then once you were done, you couldn’t get up again.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He nods, squeezing his eyes shut.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Why didn’t you use the basin?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Wasn’t in my room. Thought I was over this, thought I didn’t need it anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna frowns. “How long have you been here?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “An hour? I don’t know. A long time. I’m cold.” He closes his eyes and leans back against the wall, chuckling slightly. “So much for pretending I don’t have a fever.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She feels a bit of the rage come back, but she stills it. He doesn’t need that right now. “How long?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Since last night,” he admits. “Tylenol works wonders. And I didn’t want you to miss your first day back at work because of me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna frowns, trying to blink back the tears that threaten to overwhelm her. “Josh, you’re sick.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s news to me.” He casts a derisive look toward the puddle of vomit on the floor and begins to cough again.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, you can’t… I’m going to call an ambulance, you need…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His eyes grow wide. “No! No ambulance!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re sick and you’re throwing up and you’ve been running a fever and it’s a respiratory thing and you have to take those seriously! Your lungs still aren’t very strong, this could easily turn into pneumonia and you need to go to the hospital.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I don’t want…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I know, I know,” she whispers. “But this is bad, Josh.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He frowns and blinks back another round of tears. “No ambulance,” he says. “Please, I can’t…” His eyes are wide and frantic.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna kneels next to him, taking him in for a minute, and nods with understanding. “Can you get up if I help you?” She puts an arm behind his back, squats down beside him, and summoning considerable strength, pulls him to his feet. “Okay, I’ll drive you to the ER. Are you going to be able to make it out to the car?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He takes a moment to catch his breath, but he nods.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She doesn’t let go of him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Georgetown is closer, but she drives him to GW since his doctors are there; less of a headache to transfer records and explain an increasingly complicated medical history. She almost regrets this choice when they step into the ER and she is assaulted by the smell of blood and urine and antiseptic and who knows what else. It smells exactly like it did that night, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut against the memories.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She was only a psychology major for a semester, but she remembers something her professor said when they studied perception; the part of the brain that processes smell is right next to the memory center. Smell and memory are inextricably linked, and she doesn’t want to remember. Especially not now, when she’s so afraid again.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna wraps an arm around his back, ostensibly to support him, although he’s really very steady on his feet despite his sickness. She takes a step behind him and moves her nose close to his shoulder so that she can breathe him in and erase the ER smell, erase the memories that threaten to overwhelm her. He doesn’t show any signs of remembering this ER specifically, and for that, she is beyond grateful, although he seems to wince whenever an ambulance pulls up blaring sirens. She grasps his hand as they wait to be seen.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She is surprised and a little worried that he isn’t protesting the ER trip. He must really be feeling ill, she thinks, if he isn’t complaining about being back at the hospital again. He still looks pale and sweaty, but he has only had one coughing fit in the hour since they left his apartment. What bothers her more is the quiet. Josh is almost never quiet; he is simply incapable of resisting any chance to make a sarcastic comment or to show off his purportedly impressive verbal skills. But he said nothing on the drive over, and besides offering information as she filled out the medical forms (information that she already knows by heart, but she won’t offer that), he is quiet and still and so unlike himself.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> A nurse calls his name and takes him to a room, and Donna doesn’t even think about leaving his side. He sits silently as the nurse takes his vitals, a process which has become far too familiar, and she tries to hide just how scared she is for him. She knew that not everything was alright and yet she let her anger overwhelm her. She left him, and if it hadn’t been for Toby, who knows how long he might have been lying there? She had been considering going back to her apartment instead of his, and what might have happened if she left him there all night, curled on the floor in misery?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Dr. Wexler is on duty today,” the nurse says, “and he’ll be here in a few minutes. Press the call button if you need anything.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh nods and pinches the bridge of his nose as the nurse leaves the room. Donna takes the opportunity to move to a chair next to his bed. “How are you feeling?” she asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that question…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She rewards this with a gentle smile. “I’m surprised you didn’t fight coming here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He shrugs and looks away from her. “I knew I wasn’t gonna win.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, you weren’t, but it would have reassured me if you had put up a little more of a fight,” Donna says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’d already yelled at you enough today,” he mutters. “Donna, about earlier, I…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Whatever he is about to say is interrupted by the doctor coming in. “Mr. Lyman!” he exclaims cheerfully. Donna can see Josh scrutinizing the doctor, trying to see if he sparks recognition. Dr. Wexler notices this too. “Don’t worry, we haven’t met before,” he says. “I wasn’t on duty that night, but I do watch the news.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh looks uncomfortable, but he nods. Less explaining to do, at least. The doctor takes out his stethoscope and listens to Josh’s heart and lungs, frown lines appearing on his brow. Donna doesn’t notice that she’s breathing in sync with Josh’s pained inhalations.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You did the right thing coming here,” Dr. Wexler says. “I’m going to order a chest x-ray to make sure we can rule out pneumonia, but it seems like we’re dealing with an upper respiratory infection.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s no big deal, right?” Josh asks. The question in his voice seems pointless; lately, there has been no such thing as no big deal when it comes to his health, and Donna knows how the constantly fragility has been wearing on him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Normally, no, but since there’s considerable damage to your lung that’s still healing, it does concern me. Your vitals aren’t too bad, but your oxygen’s a little low so I’d like to keep an eye on that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh sighs heavily and looks over to Donna.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What does that mean?” she asks. Josh hates little more than talking about medical things, as just about anything will make him queasy, so she has taken on that role frequently for the past few months.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I want you to spend the next night or two here for observation,” the doctor says, making another note on the chart. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh swallows thickly, and Donna notices how he’s trying to hide his distress.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m reasonably confident it’s not pneumonia,” he continues, “yet, at least. But that doesn’t mean it won’t progress to that, and you’re particularly susceptible. If we keep you here, we can do everything we can to stop that progression, and if it does occur, we can treat immediately.” He looks over the chart again. “You reported vomiting earlier this afternoon. Have you been able to keep anything down since then?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shakes his head. “I haven’t tried.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No water, either?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The doctor makes another note. “Okay. You’re a little dehydrated, so we’ll see if you can keep some water down. If not, we’ll put you on some IV fluids.” He looks up to see Josh’s stricken face. “I know you don’t want to be back here, but it’s going to be fine,” he says, reaching out and patting Josh’s ankle. “You’ll go in for the x-ray in a minute and then we’ll see about getting you in a room, hmm?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> As he leaves, Donna reaches out to squeeze Josh’s hand. She doesn’t have any words for him; she knows that empty platitudes are not useful or comforting.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He scrubs his face with his free hand. “Any way you can use your powers of persuasion to get me out of this?” he asks. It’s a joke, but his voice lacks humor. Instead, it sounds scratchy and pained</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She feels sympathy for him, but the rush of anger still lingers. If he had just listened to her, if he had let her know what was wrong, this ER trip might not have been necessary. She might not have had to smell this awful, awful place again. She might have avoided remembering. She steels herself and tries to respond with levity. “I’ve put a lot of time and effort into making sure you stay alive, and I’m not going to let you screw that up now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It’s the wrong thing to say; he bites his lip and looks away from her, his face set stiffly to hide the distress that Donna can sense he feels. “Donna, I…” he starts, but his attempt at sincerity is once again interrupted by another nurse entering. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Mr. Lyman,” she greets cheerfully, “I’m going to take you in for some tests and then we’ll get you in a room.” She turns to Donna. “It’s going to be an hour or two, but we’ll come get you when he’s settled.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna nods and lets go of Josh’s hand. She can’t just sit here and wait for two hours, not in the ER, not where she can still breathe in and instantly relive that horrible night. “I’m going to go back to your apartment and grab some things for you,” she tells him. “You’ll be alright here?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh swallows thickly but nods.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Good,” she says. “Good. Be nice to the nurses, and I’ll see you soon.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She turns away and leaves the room before anyone can notice the tears pricking at her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The door to Josh’s apartment isn’t locked; perhaps that should worry her, but he lives in a safe area and frankly she had been more concerned about getting him to the hospital. She usually leaves the door unlocked anyway, in case someone comes by and Josh isn’t able to get up.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It’s dark inside, but she doesn’t bother turning on any of the lights. She had promised to come here to get things, but it occurs to her that she has no idea what she needs to get. She didn’t bother asking, she had just been so eager to escape. The subliminal anxiety of the past few months is overwhelming now, and the anger that has been burning inside of her still won’t go away. Worse than the anger is the guilt she feels about being angry; he’s been through so much and is suffering still, and she can’t excuse an outburst of rudeness that is only just beyond the bounds of who Josh usually is? Yes, he’s frustrating and can be abrasive and harsh. That shouldn’t be anything new to her, and yet she let it get to her to the point that she left him alone, suffering, when he clearly needed help.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> If Donna sits here any longer, she’ll start sobbing, and she doesn’t need that. Not tonight. The bathroom still needs to be cleaned, she realizes, and so she stands up with purpose, pulls out the cleaning supplies (which she had to buy for him- who knows what he was using to clean the apartment before) and tries to push away her own emotion-induced nausea. She turns on the bathroom light and blinks against the harshness. Or maybe she blinks to keep the tears in their place.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She focuses on cleaning, trying to keep her mind blank, absolutely failing to forget about him as she cleans his vomit off of the floor. She should be disgusted by it, she used to be disgusted by it, but she has gotten over any squeamishness she once had. She has seen Josh opened up, has seen his heart and lungs exposed to the world, and she didn’t faint at that; anything else seems minimal now.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Maybe if she scrubs hard enough, she’ll expel her anger and absolve herself of guilt.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She doesn’t hear the insistent knock at the door. She doesn’t hear the door open, or the footsteps on the creaky floor, or the voice calling her and Josh’s names.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She doesn’t hear anything except her own heart pounding in her ears until there’s a “Donna!” behind her, so startling that she jumps to her feet and drops the sponge to the ground. It’s CJ, her eyebrows raised in concern.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “CJ,” Donna sputters. The detritus of her cleaning task still litters the bathroom floor and while she’s stopped smelling the vomit, she’s sure CJ can still pick up the odious scent. “What are you doing here?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I was bringing by some dinner since I figured after your first full day at work, you wouldn’t… but I called and no one answered the phone…” CJ trails off as she takes in the mess of the bathroom. “Donna, what’s going on?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna can feel her lower lip quiver. She doesn’t want to cry, she can’t cry, not like this, not in front of CJ. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> CJ keeps pushing. “Why is it so dark in here? And where’s Josh?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There it is. CJ just pulled the string to make Donna unravel completely. Donna isn’t sure if she’s ever cried so much, not even two months ago when she watched Josh come face to face with death. Hot tears roll down her cheeks, and she chokes out ugly, guttural sobs that cause her whole body to shake. She feels CJ’s arms wrap around her, but there’s a tension to them, as if CJ isn’t sure how to comfort her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Then again, Donna realizes with a start, her breakdown is not a helpful answer to CJ’s question.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I had to take Josh back to the hospital,” she sniffles, pulling back from the hug a little. Not that CJ’s comfort isn’t helpful, but she knows her response is just going to be even more worrying in an already anxiety-inducing situation.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What? Why? He seemed fine when I was here a few days ago!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna bites her lip. “He was… he’s sick, CJ, and they said it’s probably just an upper respiratory infection but he’s got lung damage, and it could so easily turn into pneumonia for him and that I’m not sure he can fight that and I knew something was wrong but I left him alone and then he fell on the floor and couldn’t get up and I…” She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. “I took him to the ER and they’re keeping him overnight at least and he’s…” She buries her face in CJ’s shoulder, and CJ begins to rub her back softly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s okay,” CJ soothes. “He’s going to be okay, you know that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It doesn’t change the fact that I left him alone here when I could clearly see that something wasn’t right!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You said he was being an asshole earlier,” CJ reminders her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> This isn’t helpful, as the reminder brings on fresh tears for Donna. “He was yelling at me, but now I see it was because he was sick and I should have just… I was trying to help him but he just kept yelling and I left instead of making sure he was…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No,” CJ whispers. “No, you shouldn’t just take it. You had every right to put him in his place and go back to your job. If he didn’t want help, if he was yelling at you, then you weren’t going to talk him into it. You came back, which frankly, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you left him to flail on his own for a little while, and then you helped him, took him to the ER, and let me guess, you’re back here getting his things? Donna, none of this is your fault. Even if you been here all day, you probably wouldn’t have convinced him to go to the ER until it was clear that he really needed to. You’re doing the best you can for him, more than your best, even, and if he doesn’t see that, I don’t care that he’s in a hospital bed, I’m kicking his ass!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna backs up and reaches for a tissue, allowing herself to laugh a slight bit. “I’m not going to say he doesn’t often deserve that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re amazing, Donna,” CJ says sincerely, “and I’m sure he’s not telling you that enough.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “He manages to mention it once in a while.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Are you going back to the hospital soon?” CJ asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna nods and begins to pick up the cleaning supplies. “Yeah. I came back to get some things for him and I didn’t want this sitting around all night… Anyway, they’re doing some tests to make sure nothing is seriously wrong but they’re keeping him overnight for observation to keep an eye on him. He should be fine but I just…” She brushes past CJ and heads toward the kitchen again.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> CJ follows her and picks up the food that she dropped on Josh’s counter. “Hey, eat a little something first,” she says, pulling out boxes. “I brought some Chinese and while Josh might not be able to eat it tonight, at least you and I can enjoy it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I should get back to…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna, you need a hour. He’s getting his tests, he’s getting settled in, and he’ll be happy to see you when you get back. Eat some damn lo mein. You don’t need to starve yourself to take care of him,” CJ says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna nods slowly and washes her hands for a minute longer than seems necessary. She picks up a box and a plastic fork and begins to eat straight out of the box. “Maybe I went back to work too early,” she reflects.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No. It’s shitty timing that Josh got sick this week, but that would have happened anyway, and you being here wouldn’t have changed anything. You’re doing good work, and I’d say it’s probably more work than usual since you’re practically Josh’s White House liaison at the moment, and he’s ready for you to go back and you’re ready to go back.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I thought he was ready but now…” Donna’s fork pauses over her food.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Don’t let one bump make you forget how far you’ve come,” CJ says wisely. “Eat your food, go back to the hospital, and don’t let him be the reason you don’t get any sleep. And tell that boy I’m gonna kick his ass if he is rude to you again.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna nods, takes a last bite of her dinner, and puts the box in the fridge. “I’ll leave that to you. I trust you’ll be a little more convincing that I would.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I have to go back to the office, but keep me updated, will you? I’ll let them all know, and I’ll probably have to physically restrain Sam from rushing to the hospital,” CJ jokes, picking up her bag.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> A smile plays at the edges of Donna’s lips for the first time that day. “I’ll call as soon as I know anything new.” She wanders to the front door with CJ and hugs her goodbye; they might not have been close enough to hug like that before, but any sort of assistant-senior staff boundaries have melted away since Rosslyn. Despite her role, these people, Josh’s people, have become like Donna’s family too. “Thanks for the food, CJ. And for coming over. I’m not sure how long I might have sat there if it weren’t…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I have to say, you really should be locking the door, considering I was able to just waltz in,” CJ remarks. “Update me later. Thanks for looking out for him.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Thanks for looking out for me,” Donna replies softly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> CJ gives her a smile and a nod and closes the door behind her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She doesn’t feel so alone anymore.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna doesn’t know exactly what to pack, but she throws together a bag for herself and a bag for Josh. She figures she’ll spend the night sleeping in an uncomfortable chair in his room instead of on his couch, and she is perfectly fine with that. She left him before. She won’t leave him again.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She finds his room back at GW and lingers outside for a minute, just observing. He is settled in a bed, watching TV. He’s hooked up to an IV, but she’s relieved to see that they haven’t put him on oxygen or anything else yet. That must mean he isn’t doing too badly. Still, her heart wrenches with the thought of him landing back here. She thinks back to a month ago, when he was last here; he is so much better, but this is just another of many reminders of how fragile recovery is for him. Donna has never hated anyone as much as she hates the white supremacists who are the reason for all of this. All of her anger from earlier, her anger at Josh? Misplaced, she realizes. She is angry at the people who did this to him, and the people who indoctrinated them, and everyone who is responsible for his pain. And maybe she’s a little bit angry at him too, but that melts away when he looks up and meets her eyes through the window and his face lights up every so slightly upon seeing her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She steels herself and enters the room. “You’re all settled in?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I never wanted to see the inside of this place again,” he whines. “But hey, it’s not pneumonia so we dodged that bullet, right?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna can feel her face crumple at his turn of phrase. No, she cannot break down again tonight, especially not in front of Josh after everything he’s been through today. But the tear ducts were opened earlier, and they haven’t yet closed, and somehow even though she feels like she should have cried all the tears in her earlier, more somehow still come out.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh pales immediately. “Donna, I’m so sorry…” He is about to reach out for her, but there’s an IV in the hand that’s closest to her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You can’t just say that!” Donna says. “Not after…” she can’t complete the sentence.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I know,” he says quietly. “Donna, I know. I’m an idiot sometimes, and once in a while I fail to think through my humor.” He chuckles. “On a few occasions, it’s almost gotten me fired. But I don’t want…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head. “No, no, I think considering you were the one who got shot, you can determine what jokes are appropriate in that regard. I’m sorry it’s just… it’s been a long day and I apparently don’t have my head on straight and I…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh interrupts her. “Donna,” he says, and even though he sounds like he’s on the edge of losing his voice, she can’t help but savor her name coming out of his mouth, especially when he isn’t yelling it. “I was awful to you earlier, I really was, and you didn’t deserve it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She begins to protest, although she isn’t quite sure why because he’s definitely right.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, seriously,” he continues. “You’ve gone… way above and beyond anything I could have ever possibly asked for from you, you’re amazing, and I know nursing your pathetic boss back to health was not what you signed up for at all.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “First of all, I hired myself, so I really don’t think I have the right to complain about my job description. Second, I’m not just doing this because you’re my boss. It’s because you’re my friend and I care about you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh gives her a look. “Donna, I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m trying to apologize to you here if you’ll let me.” He raises his eyebrows, and she motions for him to go on. “Yeah, so… I guess what I’m trying to say is that I sincerely apologize for my behavior earlier. I was taking out my pain and frustration on you, and you don’t deserve that. I didn’t want you to leave, not really, but I was so tired of feeling fragile that I..”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Did CJ get to you?” Donna asks. “I was upset at work and she said she was going to slap some sense into you. I told her to let me handle it but…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh closes his eyes and lets a smile rest on his lips. “No, although that’s something I’m sure I can look forward to in the future. And I’ll deserve it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I just don’t understand… why didn’t you say anything? I’ve laid it out very clearly in rule number nine that you need to ask for help if you need it,” Donna chides. It’s half a joke, but there is very real worry and concern in her wide eyes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Because I wanted to be okay,” Josh says. “I woke up yesterday with a sore throat and didn’t say anything because I thought it would go away. I felt like I had a fever last night, but it was nothing a Tylenol couldn’t fix so I figured it wasn’t a big deal. And then I woke up this morning with a stuffed up head and an incessant cough and I was so frustrated since I convinced myself it would be nothing.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And you didn’t tell me because?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “When I woke up, I thought it might go away later in the day, since usually my lungs suck the worst in the morning anyway. And I really didn’t want you to miss your first day fully back at work,” he says. “And later I’d had such a bad PT appointment and I… Donna, I didn’t want to end up back here,” he finally admits, his free hand motioning to the surrounding room. “And I may not be cut out for medicine, but I’m not ignorant.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, that’s not something anyone’s every accused you of,” Donna teases.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh bites his lip and looks away. “Anyway, in the afternoon the nausea hit and I tried to make it to the toilet and I couldn’t in time. And somehow I had forgotten my failures in PT earlier that day and tried to get up off the floor and I couldn’t manage that.” He chuckles to himself. “I had plenty of time down there to go through all the ways you were going to kill me when you got back.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You must have been so scared,” Donna says softly. “Don’t get me wrong, if you had followed the rules in the first place this wouldn’t have happened, but…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah, I was scared,” he admits. “I feel like I shouldn’t have been, not that much, but I was scared that I had driven you away. I was scared that you wouldn’t come back, that I’d be lying there on the floor for who knows how long, and that it would all be my fault because I was being stupid and stubborn and sick of being pathetic.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna looks down at her feet. “I almost didn’t come back,” she says. “I was angry with you, and I almost went back to my own apartment instead of yours. But then Toby told me he couldn’t get you on the phone… I was scared for you too. I probably ran a few red lights on the way to your place.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Before Josh can respond to that, a nurse knocks on the door and enters the room. “Good evening Mr. Lyman, I’m just going to check your vitals.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh nods but he looks none too pleased with this development. The nurse asks a few questions, completes her tasks, and leaves the room again. Josh leans back and sighs. “I hate this place.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I know the feeling,” Donna mutters, thinking back to the pit in her stomach that had not quite disappeared since they entered the ER.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah, you looked awfully pale when we got to the ER,” Josh remarks. “I thought I was supposed to be the one who was sick.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna tries to laugh and jokes, “I’ve always been pale; they call it a White House tan.” But she can’t help but think back to the ER, and that August night, and… “Yeah, it was just… it reminded me too much of being there the night you were shot.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna…” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I hate that you found me like that, that you had to take me here, I hate that you had to remember like that…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She can’t look into his eyes. “Regardless of whether I found you on the floor, once I figured out you were sick, I was going to take you in anyway. If I recall correctly, you got a very strict talking-to about how serious respiratory infections can be for you right now, and I wasn’t going to take any chances.” She’s had more than enough anxiety about him and his health in the last few months and this latest development is just a reminder of how fragile things still are, no matter how much he’s improved. But he’s here, she reminds herself, smiling and joking and somehow having avoided developing pneumonia so far. “Did they say anything about when they might let you out?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I mean, I just got here…” Josh starts. “I needed some oxygen when they first admitted me, and since I’d thrown up most of my guts earlier, I was pretty dehydrated. I’m getting nebulizer treatments every few hours to clear out my lungs. They put me on some extra drugs too, since it’s kind of painful to cough. But once I can keep some food down again and they’re satisfied whatever this is won’t completely wreck my lungs, I should be able to go back home late tomorrow or the next day,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Good. Good. I know you hate it here, but I’d rather you be…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh nods. “I know.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And you’re feeling better?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He shrugs. “I still feel like crap, but I’m on some pretty good stuff.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Will you remember anything about this conversation tomorrow?” Donna asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She’s teasing, but he looks at her with complete sincerity. “I hope so,” he says quietly. “Are you staying?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Of course I’m staying,” Donna says. She reaches out to smooth out his hair, which has become rather wild over the course of the last few hours. “Next time, though? Follow rule nine. Ask for help, and we might avoid all of this.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh nods, slightly chastised, and reaches for the TV remote next to his bed. “The Mets game is just about on,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hmm, I think that might raise your blood pressure too much,” she teases.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Nah, they’re gonna win,” he says confidently. “I work for the President of the United States, I have influence in these things.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “There’s a major scandal there,” Donna notes dryly. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh looks over at her, taking her in, and smiles. “You’re amazing,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s the drugs talking.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No,” he asserts. The game is starting, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of her. “No, it’s really not.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Rule Number One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em>Rule #1: Limitations on Working Hours</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ve got everything you need?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna, go. I’m going to be fine.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s what you said last time, and we know how that worked out.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah, but I mean it this time.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And you’re going to stay near the phone so that Toby doesn’t come to me complaining that you aren’t picking up?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And you’re only going to work from now until 1:30?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna, that’s only two and a half hours. According to the rules, I get another half hour every week, so I’m up to three hours now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “But that was assuming you didn’t have any setbacks. You were sick enough to have to go to the hospital; you’re lucky I didn’t put you back on 30 minutes a day.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That would have driven me insane.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I think we crossed that bridge a long way back.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Calling your boss insane is typically not cited as a hallmark of professionalism.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yet another bridge far behind us. I’m pretty sure the fact that I’m sleeping on your couch has shattered any pretense of a normal professional relationship.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Like I said, you could always take the bed. I’m not using it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Because that’s so much more professional?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “If I wanted to argue, I’d call Toby.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Which is exactly what you’re going to do as soon as I leave.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “1:30! No later, and then you need to take a nap!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Bye Donna.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The door shuts behind her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She hasn’t been back to work since the day Josh was in the ER. He had spent two days in the hospital before the doctors were satisfied that he was on the upswing and could be sent home with a few extra pills for his extensive medication regimen, an inhaler, a long list of additional breathing exercises, and strict instructions to call his doctor if anything seemed to get worse. Nothing has, however, and whatever virus he seems to have picked up is almost completely out of his system. Looking back, the hospital stay feels like an overreaction, but he is painfully aware that the outcome could have been much worse.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> After a few lazy days at home, Josh’s boredom is almost at a breaking point. He’s read through three books in the last few days, but none of them have been enough to really satisfy his need to do something. Yes, he was told he needed rest, but frankly, he feels like he’s going to explode if he doesn’t get to do <em>something</em> soon.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Which is why he’s grateful that Donna is going back to work full-time.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Well, not full-time exactly. She didn’t go in this morning because she drove him to his PT appointment (which, considering his recent illness and pathetic lung capacity, had gone surprisingly well), but she’s going to be gone until the evening. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She may have assigned him specific working hours, but she won’t be here to take away his materials when those hours are over. If he only makes calls until 1:30, she’ll never know that he’s spent the rest of the time reading briefing books and memos and catching up on the last two months. The government may move slowly, but he still has thousands of pages of new bills to read and hundreds of congressmen to wrangle. And he’s game for it. His body may still be weak and pathetic, but his mind is only slightly addled by painkillers.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> All his life, people have told him to slow down, take a break once in a while, and stop taking on so much. The last two months he has been forced to do that, and he realizes why he’s never listened to any of that advice before; he’s not cut out for a slow-paced lifestyle. He thrives on pressure and work and being busy. Slowing down is anathema to who he is.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It will still be some time before he’s up to working in the White House; he doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows the walk from his office to the Oval would wind him for the rest of the day. He’s surprised how much he misses the eighteen-hour days, or more accurately, misses having the energy for several eighteen-hour days in a row. Even without all of the constant trips across the White House, without the meetings in the hallways and the journeys to the hill, Josh is usually ready for a nap after the two or three hours of work he’s allowed. He won’t admit that to Donna, of course, because she expects a fight from him. If he doesn’t fight her on that, on any of the other rules, she’ll get quiet and worried. While Josh has plenty of anxieties of his own, even he can see that she is clearly worrying too much about him. A whine of protest or a self-deprecating joke is usually enough to reassure her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> When she’s gone, however, he doesn’t have to let her arbitrary rules define his working hours. He can listen to his body and work for as long as he’s comfortable doing so. He can read the very important documents he really does need to read without her switching it out for something that’s supposed to be ‘fun’. Politics is fun! She accuses him of having tunnel vision, and maybe that’s true, but how could he not? Not when he has perhaps the best opportunity he’ll ever have to do some good in this world. This administration might only have two years left (although he is, of course, determined to get President Bartlet a second round) and yet he’s stuck, unable to really work for three whole, painful months. How many additional bills might have made it through Congress if he had been able to lean on senators and representatives to get their votes, instead of leaning on Donna to get up the stairs to his apartment? How much better off would the midterm map be looking if he had been there to delegate research on potential candidates and make sure the limited resources of the White House could back the right candidates? Donna tells him that his absence isn’t the sole factor in these processes, that he should be more worried about his healing than the politics. He’d rather worry about the politics; it distracts from the constant pain and the things he’d rather not remember.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna has set up the kitchen table for him; while the couch is more comfortable, he gets more done at the table, and he’s determined to get things done today. He’s still not allowed to lift anything heavy, which includes most of his law texts and the briefing books that Donna brings him or that Sam sneaks in. The table is covered in thick texts, folders, and other materials that he’s eager to dig into. He’s been banned from work since he got sick, so he has plenty to catch up on.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He picks up the phone and dials a familiar number and extension. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey Ginger! It’s Josh. Yeah, I’m doing pretty good. Yes, Donna’s letting me work right now. She’s there, you can go ask her for yourself. Listen, can you put me through to Toby?” It’s a conversation he has every day that he works, sometimes multiple times a day. He thinks he might talk more with Toby now than they did when they were working in the same building.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Toby Ziegler,” the voice comes through on the other side of the line.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey Toby, it’s me. Listen, I know you were saying there was a bill you wanted to talk about before I got into it. Can you do that now?” Josh shuffles through the papers on his desk to find a folder full of the bills he’s supposed to read through.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well, I’m a little busy. I do work in the White House after all. Not all of us get to work from home at our leisure.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah, whatever. Which one was it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “643.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh flips through the stack of stapled papers until he finds it. “Expanding federal background checks for assault rifles?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s the one.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He examines the information in front of his. “Fletcher’s sponsoring?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well, there was an assassination attempt in his district, so I’d assume he’d like a little assurance that we’re doing something to prevent another one.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Okay… and what did you want to discuss with me about this one?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Are you okay working on it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh frowns. “Am I okay? Toby, this is my job, of course I’m okay with working a bill.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I just didn’t know if… because of, you know.” Toby’s voice is thick and trails off. It’s very rare that Toby doesn’t have the words, and Josh wonders how often his mind goes back to that night.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Maybe Josh is lucky to not remember.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Toby, it’s alright.” He flips through the pages, skimming quickly. “So it’s adding a provision to make background checks include examining ties to hate groups?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s a blatantly obvious thing we <em>should</em> do, but it’s not gonna make it out of committee.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Why not?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Because Phillips chairs that committee, and he’s so far up the NRA’s ass…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “He’s not gonna bring it to a vote?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Absolutely not. He’ll take one look at it, see the words ‘assault rifle’, and scream about the second amendment while conveniently forgetting the words ‘well-regulated militia’ and the fact that James Madison was thinking muskets, not military-grade assault rifles!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The line is silent for a moment.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Look, Toby,” Josh continues, “I don’t think this one is worth our energy or any political capital we might have.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Don’t you want…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Of course I want it to pass! But I also want to win back the House, and win another term in the White House, and pass another bill that actually has teeth so that no one has to go through what we went through!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He can hear Toby sigh over the line. “How long are we gonna have to wait? This issue is in the spotlight. All we have to do to get public support is bring up the assassination attempt and…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Toby!” Josh interrupts. “We can’t look like we’re exploiting it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I would think you of all people…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Don’t tell me how I’m supposed to feel about this!” Josh shouts. He realizes he’s breathing heavily and his heart rate is up again. It’s a good thing Donna isn’t here, or he’d likely be banned from talking to Toby altogether.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There is silence on the other end of the line.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Toby…” he starts again, taking a deep breath. “Even if we had passed this bill last year, it wouldn’t have stopped them. They weren’t using assault rifles.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “But who’s to say the next ones won’t…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh closes his eyes. “It’s not going to make it out of committee. In fact, I’d probably call up Fletcher and ask him to drop it. Get him on a bill that matters when one comes up.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Look, you called me to go over the politics of it, and unless something has drastically changed within the Republican Party since I’ve been out, that’s what the politics are. Maybe first we get campaign finance reform passed so the NRA can’t be the primary funder of half the House. We might get something done at that point…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “This is our time to do something, when the country is on our side! Josh, how many more people have to get shot before we do something about it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. “You might want to think about who that question is directed at.” He lets the silence linger for a moment before continuing. “I’m on the same page as you, Toby. I’m on your side. Believe me, if I could guarantee that a gun would never be used in a hate crime ever again, I would. But I can’t, and Congress can’t, and I want to pass something that matters. If we push this and it by some miracle gets through, it’ll damage our chances of getting something that could actually make a difference through.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I thought… I thought you’d be all in on this.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I am, in theory,” Josh says. “I really am. But I serve at the pleasure of the President. I wasn’t hired to push my own personal agenda…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You weren’t hired to be shot at, either, but…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Toby, this is bigger than me. This is about leaving the country better than we found it, and it’s my job to make sure we don’t unintentionally set something down that’ll trip us up later. This bill is one of those. I know you’re struggling with it, with being there… and you have every right to. But you don’t have a right to screw up this administration’s agenda because of it. You asked for my advice, and I’m telling you what I think. And when it comes to Congress, I’m usually right. Drop this bill.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh tosses aside the piece of paper as he waits for Toby to answer. Finally, a gruff voice comes through the other end of the phone. “Fine,” he says. “But the when the next session of Congress starts, we’re getting something through. I’m not leaving this White House until we make certain this can never happen again.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I would hope for nothing less,” Josh says quietly. “I’ll be right behind you. Alright, what’s next?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby goes through six more bills over the phone before being interrupted by a meeting. Josh offers advice and writes down the names of some senators and representatives to call; it’s not quite as effective as meeting in person, but there’s no way he can convince Donna to let him take a trip to the hill. And frankly, he doesn’t want anyone in Congress to see him so physically weak and slow. He has a reputation to uphold, and part of that reputation involves seemingly boundless vigor, which he is currently lacking.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> When the phone call is done, he gets up, grabs the sandwich Donna left him for lunch out of the fridge, and settles down on the couch to watch CJ’s noon briefing. He’s pleased to note that he isn’t exhausted when he’s seated again; a week ago, just the journey from the kitchen to the couch would have worn him out. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> CJ is as poised and competent as ever in her briefing, but that doesn’t stop Josh from calling her afterward to rib her over her few flubs and laugh at the irrelevant questions some of the journalists from the less prestigious papers ask. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re really very annoying, you know that?” He can hear the laughter in her voice even over the phone.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You know you miss me,” he shoots back.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Only because it’s not as fun to yell at Toby or Sam. When are you coming back?” She’s asked that several times in the last few weeks, and that’s how Josh knows that she really does miss his presence. He misses being there too.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “One of my doctors is saying after the midterms, and another is saying after Thanksgiving, but I’d come back right now if my warden would free me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I hope you’re being nice to Donna.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m always nice to…” He stops and bites his lip. “Yes, CJ. She’s been amazing and I’m doing everything I can to make her feel appreciated.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Good. Listen, I gotta go. I’m a very busy woman and I can’t waste my time keeping you entertained all day,” she teases.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You sure know how to make a guy feel loved.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Talk to you later!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh leans his head on his hand as he sets the phone down, but he lets himself smile. CJ had come over just a few days before, once he was back home, but it is still always good to hear her voice. He had been so used to spending so many hours of the day seeing her, and there’s something strange about not being able to see her at any given moment.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He is in the middle of making notes on an overly complicated memo (someone needs to tell Treasury that while the president may be a Nobel Laureate in economics, he didn’t hire a staff of economists) when the phone rings.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh Lyman,” he says casually. It’s not like whoever he is won’t know—unlike his office number, not all of Congress has access to his personal phone number—but the habit is deeply engrained in him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey Josh, how’s it going?” It’s Sam’s voice on the other end.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well enough,” he says. “And if this is Donna attempting to check in on me without actually checking in on me, let me know I’m on to her.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He can hear Sam chuckle over the phone. “Did it ever occur to you that I, as your friend, might also be concerned about how you are?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Is that what you’re calling about? Because if it is, Donna’s only letting me work so many hours and I better…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, it’s not,” Sam says. “I’ve got a meeting with the President this afternoon. Midterm strategies, trying to figure out which candidates we can swing a campaign stop for or what kind of surrogates we can utilize, what topics to go with in what districts, that kind of thing.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Okay…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well, that’s usually more of your thing, and… can I get you in on it? On speakerphone, you know?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh nods slowly, even though he knows Sam can’t take that as an answer. “What time?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Two,” Sam says. “If it’ll get you in trouble with Donna, don’t bother, but…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, no, no,” Josh replies quickly. “Of course I’ll call in. Listen though… you may want to distract Donna during that time.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, like I said, if it’s…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It won’t be a problem. I’ll nap afterward and it won’t even break the dictatorial, burdensome rules…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That are keeping you alive,” Sam remarks dryly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I can’t believe you’re on her side here!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Am I or am I not aiding and abetting you in breaking the rules?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “A minor regulatory infraction. She’ll forgive you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Do you want me to be in on this meeting or not?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He can hear Sam’s sigh over the phone. “Yes, I do.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Great. Have Mrs. Landingham call me when you head over and put me in, and I’ll talk to you then. Anything I need to look over to prep?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “One of the binders I sent over has all recent polling data on all our congressional races- I had one of the interns highlight all the ones we really need to pay attention to.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh looks over the binders on the table in front of him, suddenly thankful for Donna’s organization of all of his materials. It’s gone to hell in the two hours he’s been at it—papers are scattered everywhere, memos have fallen on the floor and he’s not quite up to bending down to get them—but all the binders and briefing books and folders are organized according to topics and it’s easy enough to find the binder that Sam is talking about. “Yep, I’ve got it. Alright, I’ll take a look at this stuff. Need anything else?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Not as far as I know. Thanks, Josh.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Anytime. Talk to you later.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He sits back and opens up the binder, poring over candidates and polling data, scribbling notes in the margins, crossing off or circling highlighted names, and enjoying every minute of it. For the first time since he woke up in a hospital bed, he feels fully alive, fully like himself. He isn’t himself if he isn’t doing this. While he understands why the rules exist, he realizes that he’ll be both mentally, and more frustratingly, physically exhausted after working this hard, he wishes that he didn’t have these limits.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He always wants to do big things. He <em>does</em> big things, he works for the President! His work is influential and important and nothing frustrates him more than the fact that he can’t do more of it. He puts his head in his hands, realizing with a sinking heart that he’s tired. He’s been working for two hours, and he’s exhausted. How is he the same man that worked sixteen to eighteen hours regularly, who not only survived but thrived off of three or four hours of sleep? He’s inclined to blame it on Donna’s refusal to give him coffee (apparently on his cardiologist’s instructions) but even after two months, his body is constantly betraying him. It’s almost as if his flesh knows that he’s really not supposed to be alive right now, that he should have bled out at Rosslyn or in the operating room and maybe then, at last he’d be able to think about Joanie with a sense of peace.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> But unlike Joanie, he survived. He shouldn’t have, but he survived. And though every bit of his body is in the process of coming to terms with that, he doesn’t think his mind ever will.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He can’t think about Joanie. He has to think about all the people he survived for, the people he’s still here for. His mother, who couldn’t have borne the loss of her only remaining family member. Toby, CJ, Sam, Leo, the President. Donna… </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The phone rings and he’s grateful for the relief from his thoughts. He picks it up, says his name, and tries not to sound as breathless as he feels. Is it the lingerings of his respiratory infection, or just how his pathetic damaged lungs are, or is it just another sign of the anxieties that seem to press down on him?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh,” Mrs. Landingham’s voice comes through. “Sam and Leo just went into the Oval. I’m going to put you through to the president. Let’s hope he knows how to use speakerphone.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The president apparently does know how to use speakerphone, because it’s his voice that Josh hears next. “Josh, how are you?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it, Mr. President?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “So that’s where our surplus is disappearing to.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh laughs. He’s spoken with President Bartlet a few times since Rosslyn, although of course the president has little time for social calls. “I’m doing much better, sir.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Heard you were back in the hospital for a bit there.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Just for observation for a respiratory infection, but I’m back home and much better now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Glad to hear it. And when do you get to come back here?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh doesn’t need to share the ongoing debate between the doctors and himself and Donna about his return to work. He’s already decided when he wants to come back, advice of his doctors be damned. “Should be right after the midterms.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Excellent, excellent. Speaking of which, Sam, will you get us started? What far flung reaches am I jetting off to this month?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well sir…” Sam starts, and the meeting takes off. It’s 30 minutes of everything Josh loves, and while there’s something missing only being able to chime in with his voice and not see the faces of the others, he still relishes every moment of it. He closes his eyes and imagines he’s back in the Oval, thinking about how awed he was the first time he had a staff meeting in there. He had gotten a president elected, it should not have been so overwhelming, and yet it took his breath away. It still does, when he thinks about it, although that could, again, be his struggling lungs instead. But the feeling of overjoyed awe? It never quite goes away.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> By the time he hangs up the phone, he is well and truly exhausted, but he feels alive. He feels fulfilled. He doesn’t want it to stop. So instead of going to lie down and take a nap like he really should have done an hour ago, he pulls out another folder and begins to read.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh told himself he was going to listen to his body, didn’t he? Turns out he’s not very good at that. He doesn’t notice his eyes drooping, or maybe he does, but he ignores it. He doesn’t notice the way his arms fold on the table in front of him, or how his head slowly falls forward into a pile of half-read memos. If he was listening to his body, he probably would have picked up on that and gone to his bed to lie down.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It might have spared him from waking up, dizzy and disoriented, to Donna’s hand on his shoulder and her frustrated “Joshua!”.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh lifts his head up from the table, grimacing at the stiffness in his back and shoulders. He blinks at the brightness of the overhead light and tries to squint across the kitchen to see what time it is. It’s dark outside his window, and Donna is here, so he supposes he doesn’t have to think too hard. He turns his head to look at Donna and begins to sputter, but no adequate excuse manages to come out.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You have ink on your face,” she interrupts, reaching out to rub a spot on his forehead.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He looks down at the paper in front of him; sure enough, the notes he made are smeared. “Do I get an opportunity to defend myself?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I wouldn’t bother,” Donna says. “I think I have a pretty good idea of what happened here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “This is rule number one, Josh.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You need to take breaks.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I did take a nap.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Accidentally,” Donna retorts, reaching to pick up some of the scattered papers in front of him. “What time did you fall asleep?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh presses his lips together. “I’m not really sure. I was in a meeting until 2:30…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “An entire hour after you were supposed to be done.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s a little hard to turn down a meeting with the President of the United States!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head. “And then you kept working after that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah,” he said, hanging his head.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She pulls out a glass of water and sets it in front of him, along with a handful of pills. “You were supposed to take these at 4.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He swallows the pills and puts his head in his hands. “Look, Donna, I…” He doesn’t know what to say to make this better for himself. He knows he should do a better job taking care of himself, of listening to his body and knowing when to stop, but he has never been good at that anyway, and the more limited he feels, the harder it is to admit defeat and stop. He knows he’s about to be berated, and he knows he probably deserves it, but that will only make it worse and his head is already pounding. “Please don’t say anything.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> To his surprise, she takes his elbow and nudges him to stand up. “Go sit on the couch,” is all she says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh follows her instructions without protest. He hears the beeping of the oven as she sets it, the fridge opening and closing, and the sound of the sink running, and he tiredly tries to formulate some sort of escape plan before she can lay it all on him, but he’s still not fully awake.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She comes back in with a soft look on her face and sits next to him. She quirks her head slightly and takes in his body language. “Can you sit sideways?” she asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hmm?” He doesn’t fully process the request.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Turn your back to me. Can you, or do you need to lean on something?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He shifts with a grunt. “Donna, I don’t understand…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Shhh,” she says, pulling her legs up to sit crosslegged behind his back on the couch. “You’re clearly stiff.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah, and I really don’t think this weird position is gonna…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His complaint is cut off when Donna places her hands on top of his shoulders and digs her fingers into his neck, gently massaging the muscles. He blinks in confusion; he would have turned around to look at her if the very idea didn’t make him wince. “Donna, what is…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m giving you a massage.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Since when did you know anything about massage?” he questions, groaning at the pressure. It’s painful, in a way, but it’s a much better kind of pain than what he’s used to dealing with.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I picked up a few things from your physical therapist,” Donna replies offhandedly. She moves further down, digging into his shoulder blades and only pressing harder when he lets out a satisfied grunt.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh wants to complain, feels like he <em>should</em> complain, if only to make her feel reassured, but he is incredibly stiff and sore and having her hands all over her back is a pleasant distraction. He loves her touch—he always has, even as they’ve skirted the bounds of what is appropriate physical contact between coworkers—and now she’s allowed to touch him. There’s nothing wrong about it, nothing inappropriate. Nothing that would indicate anything more than a deep friendship and close connection. They're allowed to have that.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> So then why is he so fixated on her touch? Of every brush of her fingers across his aching muscles? The physical therapist does this same thing after every session, but that never leaves him breathless. That touch never distracts him from everything else. Not like this.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He hopes she can’t tell how this is setting his heart racing, and he certainly hopes she won’t insist on checking his blood pressure right after this, because he’s sure that she’s raising it singlehandedly. Or, more accurately, with both delicate but surprisingly strong hands. If anything should be against the rules, it should be this; she’s taking his breath away more sharply than the bullet that collapsed his lung.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh never wants it to stop.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He moans as she moves her hands lower, digging into the stiff muscles of his mid-back. Is that weird? He’s not sure if it is, but he supposes compared to some of the other things she’s seen and heard from him in the last two months, she probably won’t be too disturbed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Her hands are so warm, and his t-shirt is thin enough that if he closes his eyes, he can imagine that she’s touching the bare skin of his back. It’s not like she hasn’t touched his bare skin before, considering the number of times she’s helped him change the bandages on his wound, but this… this feels different somehow.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The oven beeps, and suddenly her hands are not on his back anymore, and suddenly he can breathe again, and suddenly he feels bereft, and suddenly he realizes that he can’t speak of this. He can’t think of it. He can’t allow himself to imagine what might happen if her hands were to travel down lower, if they were to find other spots on his body that could benefit from their healing touch. He can’t say any of that, or think any of that, because he can’t allow himself to feel that way. She’s a friend, she’s an assistant, she has a career ahead of her and so does he, and he can’t put any of that in jeopardy.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He watches as she rushes back toward the kitchen, turning and leaning back on the couch, and tries to push any thoughts from his mind that he’s not allowed to have.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh’s mind briefly drifts to rule number ten.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> No, that’s the one rule he’s determined <em>not</em> to break.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He didn’t think it would be a problem.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It’s not a problem. He isn’t falling in love with her. He’s just touch starved and going a little crazy from everything these last two months.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He isn’t breaking rule number ten.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> And even if he is, he’ll never let her know it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna comes back and sits down next to him. “Sorry, I had to put dinner in the oven. How was that? Did if help with some of the stiffness?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He closes his eyes for a minute before he can answer. How was that? How was that? His mind races before he remembers the thoughts he isn’t allowed to think, and he opens his eyes again and tries to cleanse his mind. He takes a deep breath. “It helped a little,” he says, rolling his shoulders back for emphasis. “The meds are kicking in too, which helps,” he adds. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Good,” Donna says. She takes a sideways glance at him and sighs heavily. “Look, Josh, I know you don’t want to be lectured…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I really don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “But this is exactly the reason for the working hours. You don’t listen to your body. You don’t stop when you need to. You never have.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I know,” he says sincerely. “I got wrapped up in what I was doing. I knew I was tired, I knew I needed to stop, but I was enjoying the work so much…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She pats his back and he stiffens imperceptibly. But it’s just a friendly gesture, and he knows she means absolutely nothing by it, and he can’t think those thoughts or he’ll start to break rule number ten. “Such an extensive vocabulary, and yet the word ‘rest’ is not in there,” she remarks sarcastically.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Let’s have a little less of that please,” Josh responds with an eye roll.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re going to bed early tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes, of course.” He saw that one coming a mile away.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And tomorrow I’m going to call when it’s time for you to be done, and you’re going to drop what you’re doing then.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “In my defense, the reason I worked later was because I was meeting with the President, so, I mean…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head. “Not even the President has immunity from the rules.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He opens his mouth to argue, but she interrupts him with a “Joshua.” She doesn’t have to say anything else.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He gives her a sheepish look and sighs. “Okay, fine, whatever. You’re on a serious power trip, you know that?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s nice to wield a little authority,” Donna teases, stretching an arm out to rest on the back of the couch. It’s dangerously close to touching him, and Josh realizes he’s holding his breath. “Are the Mets playing tonight?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Nah, their series starts tomorrow. But we could catch the end of the Yankees game tonight,” he says, glancing towards the remote. He really doesn’t feel like leaning forward to get it, and thankfully Donna notices his reluctance and hands it to him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You want to watch the Yankees?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I want to watch the Mariners beat them. And then be able to gloat about it to Toby.” He switches on the television and changes the channel before Donna has the chance to notice he’s been running C-SPAN.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Where are the Mariners from again?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Seattle.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Have I been there?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shrugs. “We made a couple stops in Washington during the campaign. One in the primary and maybe a few more during the general. I’m sure you were there at some point.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ll be honest, we went to so many places that it’s kind of all a blur, and I was constantly back and forth between the campaign trail and headquarters…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s a nice city. Rainy and gray as hell most of the time, but we were there once in July and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. You’ve got mountains on one side and water on the other… plus they know how to make a cup of coffee there. Speaking of which, have I mentioned lately how much your failure to bring me coffee disappoints me?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna quirks her head to the side. “You should take me to Seattle.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “This rather than Hawaii?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, I want you to take me there, too, but we might need to have a layover somewhere. Tell you what, you take me to Seattle and I’ll bring you some coffee. I’ll even get it from the original Starbucks.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh smirks. “So all I have to do to get you to do what should have been in your job description in the first place is to take you to a city 3,000 miles away?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Once your cardiologist says you can have coffee again, of course.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You know, I think I’ll just stick to getting it myself.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna raises an eyebrow. “You could still take me to Seattle.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Maybe if they beat the Yankees so that I can rub it in Toby’s face.” He gestures at the TV. “They seem to be doing pretty good right now, but I’d rather the Mets face them than the Yankees in the World Series.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What am I going to do with you when baseball season is over and you can’t ramble on about it anymore?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Theoretical physics might come back. Or maybe you’ll let me actually talk about politics and then we’ll be getting somewhere.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna laughs, and as she moves, her fingers brush up against the back of his neck.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh closes his eyes and tunes out the commentators on the game. Rule number ten might be harder to keep than he originally thought.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Rule Number Eight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Rule #8: Diet Restrictions</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He wakes up to the sound of Donna’s footsteps entering his room and her quiet voice rising and falling—is she singing, he wonders briefly—as she carries in a tray and sets it down next to his bed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sure enough, as he wakes up a little more, he realizes that she’s singing, although her rendition of “Happy Birthday” is not entirely on key. There’s a reason music was never one of her many majors. Still, he blinks against the brightness of the overhead light she’s turned on and sits up, pleased to note that the movement is only moderately painful, which is certainly an improvement.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She closes out the song and grins at him. “Happy birthday, Josh.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “At a certain point, Donna, a birthday only serves as a reminder of how much closer one is to becoming old and decrepit,” he remarks, “and considering I’m currently middle-aged and decrepit, the path is mournfully short.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I don’t know if I would call 39 middle-aged.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well, based on statistical life expectancies in the United States, I would say it’s exactly middle-aged.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head. “You’ve got too much youthful vigor to be considered middle-aged.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Would you tell my doctors that?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She rolls her eyes and puts the tray in front of him. “You get the luxury of a full omelet, not just egg whites this morning. And breakfast in bed.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh observes the meal before him. It’s really quite something; an omelet, toast, fruit, juice, tea… “You know, breakfast in bed kind of loses its allure once bed becomes the only place you’re allowed to eat things,” he notes. “And no coffee?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, you know the rule.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hell, I’d even take decaf at this point. Usually I’d say there’s no point if there’s no caffeine, but I really think the placebo effect might be enough…” he rambles. “But thanks, Donna, this looks great. Are you headed into work soon?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Half day today,” Donna says, seating herself by his feet. “I’m driving you to PT this morning.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re sending me to get tortured? On this day of all days?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna rolls her eyes at his dramatics. “I thought you didn’t like celebrating your birthday.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I don’t.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Then don’t complain.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I just don’t see why the fact that I don’t enjoy my birthday means you should take the liberty of engaging me in all sorts of torture.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well, I’m sharing the love and giving Sam the opportunity to engage in your torture since he volunteered to be the one to take you to your cardiologist appointment this afternoon,” Donna remarks nonchalantly, not even bothering to watch his eyes bug out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You scheduled an appointment for today?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Every two weeks. You should know the drill by now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah, but did it really have to be for today?” He flops back against the pillows behind him and exhales to express his frustration. “Why is Sam taking me?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Because I have to go into the office this afternoon.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Sam has an important job.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I have an important job, too,” Donna replies indignantly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh rolls his eyes. “I know that, but I can’t imagine that Leo’s just going to let him have a Friday afternoon off to chauffeur me around.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Sam has slept at the White House two nights this week; Leo’s thrilled to have an excuse to kick him out of there for a little while.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh takes a bite of his omelet. “And so he’s going to spend his few hours not working driving me to the doctor?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “He wants to see you, Josh. He misses you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “He sees me plenty.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “A few times a week, when you used to see each other for eighteen hours a day,” Donna says. “He probably feels like he isn’t doing enough.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh sighs. “He literally helped me shower when I couldn’t do it myself. If that’s not doing enough…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And I know you don’t care about your birthday, but maybe he just wants to spend some time with you on your birthday.” Donna’s words come out more forcefully than she expects them too, but sometimes his inability to accept the fact that other people care about him is absolutely infuriating. “You may not like to celebrate it, but did you ever think about the fact that some of us thought you might never get another birthday? That you might have been perpetually 38, that we might have spent this day at a cemetery instead of with you? God, Josh, if you don’t want to celebrate, at least let us!” She bites her lip and turns away from him, hoping she won’t cry. She hasn’t cried, not in a while, not in front of him. “You weren’t guaranteed this birthday, but you made it, and I won’t let you forget it.” She finally composes herself and turns to face him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh’s face is stony, but when he meets her eyes, he softens. “You’re right.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Can I get that in writing?” She still looks a little stricken.<br/>He laughs, and for once, it isn’t followed by a grimace. “For what time is my torture scheduled today?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The physical therapy, the doctor’s appointment, or the pain of admitting that I’m always right? Because the first is at 10, the second is at 4:30 and the last one is the moment you get your head out of your ass.” She turns to leave the bedroom. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He looks after her with admiration.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His PT appointment really isn’t too bad; in fact, it leaves him feeling like he’s turned a corner. He adds on another ten pounds to what he was able to lift in the session before, and his physical therapist even has him jog for a minute. It’s slow and it doesn’t take much to make him breathless or get his heart rate higher than it should be, but he was never good at jogging anyway.He thinks back to the last time he jogged—it was that meeting with Hoynes, the day of the town hall. It seems like a lifetime ago. He tries to push that thought out of his mind, focusing on pushing his body to its current limits instead.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “How are you feeling?” he gets asked as the physical therapist rubs down his muscles after the end of the session.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Like there might finally be an end to all of this,” Josh replies. He’s been warned that even after he can go back to work, he’ll still have to come back to PT once or twice a week for a little while, so it’s not close to over, but he’s feeling much more like himself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Not so torturous after all?” Donna asks as he gets into the car upon seeing his satisfied face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I was forced to jog. I considered that torturous even before I got shot.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s good though, that you were able to. Right?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ll be taking meetings again with Hoynes in no time,” he responds, a smile playing at the edge of his lips.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna pulls up in front of his apartment, grateful to see that there’s an actual parking space nearby. “I should have scheduled your appointments back to back so you didn’t have to get up the stairs twice.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The stairs are nothing now. I could climb to the top of the Washington Monument right now and not even break a sweat.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You couldn’t even do that before,” Donna replies, rolling her eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m a new man, Donnatella.” Maybe there is something to those post-exercise endorphins Sam is always going on about. He makes it up the stairs and only feels the slightest bit breathless. “I’m about ready to go test my Washington Monument theory.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She pushes the door open with a shake of her head. “Go take a shower.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You sure you don’t want to go try it? The view is supposed to be pretty good.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Rule number five,” Donna quips, pointing to the list hanging on the fridge. At some point, she managed to get it laminated; Josh has taken to crossing off whatever rule he’s determined to break with a marker, and right now about half of them have red lines through them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Come on, Donna, it’s my birthday. Clearly the rules can be relaxed a little bit,” he whines, although he’s trying hard to disguise a smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You smell. Take a shower,” she says, lightly pushing him towards the bathroom.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He heads down the hallway, but not before shouting, “I’m telling you, I think I could I do it!” He definitely could not, but he feels good today, and he knows demonstrating exaggerated confidence will boost Donna’s mood as well as his. He can’t stop thinking about the stricken look on her face this morning. He had spent so long in an anesthesia-induced haze after the shooting that he doesn’t really remember anything until two or three days after. At that point, the doctors had been certain he would somehow survive; he doesn’t know what their faces looked like when no one was sure if he would live or die. He doesn’t know, but he wonders if Donna’s face this morning had been a shadow of her face that terrible night.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’s almost grateful he doesn’t remember.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He showers and gets dressed, putting on a button-down and real pants for what feels like the first time in ages. He never thought he’d miss the suits he’d gotten so used to wearing throughout the course of his career, but there’s something that feels so right about putting on work clothes, even if he doesn’t yet get to go back to work. He thinks about putting on a tie, but he is interrupted by Donna entering his room.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I could have been naked, you know,” he says, turning to see her in the doorway.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re not.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I could have been.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Oh get over it, I’ve seen it all before.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh’s eyes widen; if he had been holding anything, he would have dropped it. “You’ve what?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You were unconscious.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He takes a few steps toward her and holds up a hand. “Wait, wait. Hold on. You’ve seen me naked?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Not like that, Josh, and not all at once, but… hospital gowns are not exactly the most modest of garments, and there were nurses doing things so often that if I had to leave every time… I promise I wasn’t trying to look but by the time you were awake enough to be self-conscious about it… I pretty much got the whole picture.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh moves to sit on the edge of his bed and runs his hand through his hair. “I can’t believe you…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I would have thought we were past that particular threshold of embarrassment by now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He looks at her for a minute, his head racing for what to say, before he finally sputters out, “You’ve seen me naked?” So much for his purported verbal skills.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ve also seen your heart and lungs inside your open chest,” Donna defends, “so after that, I’m not sure anything can faze me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The past two and a half months have been a series of necessary violations to his privacy and dignity, and while he thought he’d gotten used to it at this point, he is still deeply uncomfortable with the way his body has been poked, prodded, and exposed. He trusts Donna—he trusts Donna with his life—and she’s been the one to change the bandages on his chest, the one who’s seen him through his embarrassing inability to do anything, but this feels like a violation too far. He’d always asked Sam to come help him in and out of the shower when he couldn’t do it himself; he couldn’t let Donna do it. He couldn’t ask it of her. It’s stupid, really, that he’s so bothered by this, aside from it being just another expression of his helplessness.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She saw him naked and she didn’t say anything, and worse, she doesn’t even seem to care.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Maybe that’s what bothers him so much.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> But that’s definitely a violation of rule number ten, so he won’t allow himself to think it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, are you…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He looks up at her, realizing he’s been staring into his lap for who knows how long. “Sorry, I just… it’s hard to process, you know? Those days are all kind of lost to me, and sometimes it’s hard to wrap my mind around them.” He bites his lip and looks away from her again. “I mean, my heart didn’t beat for fourteen hours. I was, for all intents and purposes, dead…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I know,” she says softly, and he can’t avoid seeing the pain in her eyes and realizing she knows all too well. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> This is an excuse that works well enough, even if he’s not entirely sure it’s true. “I can’t remember anything from then or the few days after… and I’m often glad I can’t, but there’s something very disconcerting about it too. And so hearing you talk about what happened then…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna comes over and squeezes his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’ll knock next time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> A part of him really, really, hopes she won’t, but he can’t say that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re dressed up,” she continues, changing the subject. “All this for the cardiologist?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I feel good today, why shouldn’t I look good too?” He stands up from the bed and heads toward the kitchen. “I told Toby I’d call him at noon, so I’d better get prepped for that. Are you headed to work?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna nods. “That’s what I came in to tell you. Also, Dr. Sanders called and said that you shouldn’t take one of the pills this afternoon before you come in—something about it interfering with some of the labs they need, so I took that one out of the organizer. But don’t forget to take the rest of them with lunch.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes, Donna, I’ll swallow the entire damn pharmacy before I go,” he replies with derision, as she follows him towards the kitchen.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She gives him a look as she picks up her bag, but doesn’t say anything in response. “Sam should be by at 4 or so, your appointment is at 4:30.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Bye Donna,” he says absently, seating himself at the kitchen table to start working. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’s slowly beginning to feel like he’s caught up on what he missed when he couldn’t work at all, although he knows that going back to work fully will be another shock of new information. He spends much of the afternoon on the phone with Toby, who, while engaged in the conversation, seems to be even more cagey and avoidant of personal topics than usual. It doesn’t strike him as too odd until they’re about to end the call and Toby signs off with a “See you tonight,” and then sputters out a correction about talking to him later or something like that. Josh frowns a bit in confusion, but puts the phone down. At least Toby can be trusted not to make a big deal of his birthday.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna calls at 3 and insists he stop working and sleep for a bit before Sam comes by. He’d normally protest, but he’s starting to feel tired and he knows that the less tired he seems at his appointment, the sooner he’ll get cleared to go back to work. So he takes a little time to clean up the disaster area that the kitchen table has managed to become in the last three hours and heads to his room to lie down.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He sleeps surprisingly easily; despite Donna forcing naps on him for the past two months, he’s never been very good at actually falling asleep. He’s too impatient to nap, usually. Lying down in the middle of the day feels like a waste of time when there’s always so much to do. So his newfound ability to nap has only been precipitated by his body’s ever-present exhaustion and his boredom when Donna cuts him off from working. But today, he falls asleep almost as soon as he lies down, and he doesn’t dream (which is really a nice bonus), and he wakes up to Sam standing over him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh blinks rapidly when he realizes the figure in his bedroom doorway is not Donna. It takes him another moment to recognize Sam, and several more to orient himself and remember why exactly Sam is in his bedroom. “You scared me,” he finally mumbles, sitting up slowly and trying to stifle a groan. It’s certainly not as painful as it used to be, but it makes him wonder if the pill Donna took away was one of his painkillers.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You should stop leaving your door unlocked,” Sam says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s Georgetown, it’s fine,” Josh mumbles in reply, willing himself to stand up. This is the other thing he hates about naps; if he manages to find the patience to take one, he wakes up almost more tired than he started. “Donna didn’t want…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah, she was a little freaked out by your pneumonia incident there.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh rolls his eyes as he gets up, hoping he doesn’t look as woozy as he feels. “It wasn’t pneumonia. And anyway, she insisted on the unlocked door before that. I told her it would be bad if someone tried to rob me, because despite my barfighting prowess, I’m not exactly in any shape to fend off criminals. But she was more worried about stuff like the pneumonia thing, which I will again point out, was not actually pneumonia.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam doesn’t respond to that; he trusts Donna’s side of the story more on this, considering how Josh likes to downplay his weaknesses, but he instead puts on a smile and steps out into the hall. “Ready to go?”<br/>“I shouldn’t have slept in this shirt,” Josh says, looking down at the wrinkles that have developed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Do you really want me to remind you how frequently you slept in your suits and still wore them all day the next day?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Please, I really miss doing that,” Josh says, and while his tone is joking, he’s definitely serious.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam slaps his back gently as they head towards the living room. “You look fine. You’d go to work like that, so I don’t think your cardiologist will judge you too much.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Nah, he’ll sooner judge me for my diet, which apparently, despite being strictly controlled by Donna’s dictatorial whims, is still not good enough for him.” Josh puts on his jacket and opens up the door. “How’s it been at work?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Oh no, you’re not going to goad me into talking about that; I’m under strict instructions from Donna to change the topic of discussion,” Sam replies. He’s parked out in front of the fire hydrant, but his hazards are on and there’s no evidence of a ticket on his windshield.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh gets into the car, rolling his eyes. “She seeks to control me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “She’s trying to keep you alive. And she’s doing a good job.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Evidently,” Josh replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Happy birthday, by the way.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh gives him a look. “I was wondering how long it would take you to bring that up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “How does it feel to be an old man?”<br/>“Just you wait another five years and you can find out.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’d like to start preparing myself now,” Sam teases.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well, I’m really not sure if the symptoms I’m experiencing are from old age or a gunshot wound, so I’m afraid my answer is less than reliable. And you couldn’t at least wait for 40 to tease me about being old?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam pulls out of the parking spot and gives Josh a smile. “You’ve been moving like an old man, I’m taking you to a cardiologist, and your diet looks like it’s straight out of a nursing home.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Again, gunshot wound,” Josh replies with faux annoyance. In truth, Sam’s teasing is refreshing; everyone else has been treating him like he might break at any second, and refusing to even mention or joke about what he went through, so he appreciates Sam’s humor.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “So the secret to aging well is not getting shot.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh bites his lip to suppress a smile and shrugs. “Wouldn’t recommend it, personally.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re doing alright though?” Sam asks, seeming to realize that he’s joking about things that are very serious.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah,” Josh replies. “Definitely. PT was really good today, and hopefully at this appointment I’ll get a date for when I can go back to work. Of course there are three other doctors who also have to clear me, but I’m getting there. I really am.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam grins as he turns into the parking garage. “Can’t wait to have you back.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I can’t wait to be back.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’s gotten used to the typical progression of doctor’s appointments now, and he isn’t fazed by the nurse’s extensive battery of tests, although he still has to close his eyes when his blood is drawn. He tries not to linger on how pathetic it is that he’s 39 years old and has literally had open heart surgery but is still afraid of blood. Maybe it’s because of it, rather than in spite of it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You all right?” Sam asks after the nurse leaves, probably noting how pale he is after the blood draw. If Josh never has to hear that question again, he’ll still have heard it too many times. He understands, he really does, and he appreciates that everyone cares about him, but it’s not like he’ll say he’s not fine. Whether or not they ask won’t make any difference.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shakes off his annoyance, because Sam doesn’t deserve it from him, and manages to say a strained, “Yeah,” before there’s a knock on the door and he startles slightly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Good afternoon, Mr. Lyman,” the cardiologist says as he comes in, holding out a hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Dr. Sanders,” Josh says, standing up from the exam bed to shake it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Pretty strong grip there,” the doctor notes as he sets down a clipboard.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ve been practicing,” Josh jokes. “I’m in politics after all; sometimes strong-arming needs to be literal.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Dr. Sanders huffs in amusement, turning to the sink to wash his hands. “Physical therapy going well?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Great, actually,” Josh says, and for once, he doesn’t feel like he’s lying or exaggerating. “They even had me jogging a little today, but don’t worry, they were very careful to make sure I didn’t go tachycardic or anything.” He thought his vocabulary had been extensive before, but this experience has caused him to acquire a whole new vocabulary of words that he really would rather not know. At least he’ll understand what the hell Dr. Bartlet is talking about once in a while.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “New driver?” Dr. Sanders notes, nodding at Sam sitting in the chair by the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam stands up with a smile. “Sam Seaborn.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You work at the White House too?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Deputy Communications director,” Sam says with a smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Dr. Sanders smiles as he shakes Sam’s hand. “Never thought I’d meet half the staff at the White House. My goodness, the First Lady even called me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh gulps. “Oh god…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Don’t worry, I didn’t violate HIPAA. We’re both professionals. I’ve treated senators and representatives and all kinds of important people, but I never would have thought I’d get a phone call from the First Lady,” Dr. Sanders says. “Very interesting woman. Absolutely brilliant, as I’m sure you know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam and Josh look at each other with a knowing smile. They’ve had their fair share of run-ins with Abbey Bartlet. “Oh yes,” Sam says. “She’s quite something.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Anyway, I’m sure she’ll insist on checking you out once you’re back to work. She told me she’s operated on a few cases like yours, so she’s very interested to see how it heals up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh sighs. Dr. Bartlet had come by frequently while the President was still in the hospital, and had been very interested in all the aspects of his operation and recovery. She always seemed unaffected and encouraging, although in one conversation she had let it slip how she had judged his survival highly unlikely. “I’m glad you proved me wrong,” she said to him, and that was the first time it really hit him what he had been through, what he had put everyone through that night. He still tries not to think too hard about it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Checkups from the First Lady might be considered one of the odder job perks out there,” Josh notes wryly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The cardiologist rewards his statement with a short exhalation of laughter. “Anyway, your preliminary labs look pretty good. Much improved from two weeks ago.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m feeling much better than I did two weeks ago.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m glad to hear it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “So can I go back to work?” Josh asks impatiently. He’s asked this question at every single doctor’s appointment he’s had since he was released from the hospital, even when he knew the yes answer was months away. But now it finally feels like he’s going to get a yes soon.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Dr. Sanders puts down the clipboard. “Let’s take a listen, shall we? And then we’ll discuss it. Shirt off.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam’s eyes widen at the words. “Josh, I can leave if…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, no, no. Don’t worry about it, Sam. You’ve seen it all before,” Josh replies offhandedly. “I mean, I know it’s pretty hideous but…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s just that Donna…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna what?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Never mind,” Sam says.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Okay.” Josh shrugs and starts to unbutton the shirt, although he still regards Sam with questioning eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Dr. Sanders squints his eyes and takes a look at the scar. “It’s healing pretty nicely.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh has to suppress a laugh at that; the line bisecting his chest is still red and angry and he’s not convinced it’ll ever fade, although he’s been told it will. And that’s the one that saved his life. The scar to the side, the small puckered one that is much less imposing and frankly, looks much better, is the one that almost killed him. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to look at himself in a mirror and not have to remember, not have to feel so overwhelmed by the hatred that will mar him forever. He touches it sometimes, even though he’s not really supposed to while it’s healing. He touches it and is fascinated by the absence of sensation; what must it be like, he wonders, to be able not to feel everything. To be able to forget.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His thoughts are interrupted by the cold metal of the stethoscope pressing against his chest, as Dr. Sanders leans over and listens, pursing his lips. He moves it to a few more spots, and then goes back to make some notes. Josh stares at the wall, and Sam tries to look everywhere except for at Josh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Have you noticed any arrhythmic episodes lately?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh frowns, mentally searching his newfound medical vocabulary for the definition. “Not that I could tell.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Good, good,” the doctor says, making a note. “I still want to keep you on the antiarrythmic for now, but it may not be necessary long-term.” He scribbles another thing down before asking, “Donna still keeping you strictly on that diet?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes,” Josh says with a grimace. “I haven’t had red meat since…” he trails off. “Do you know what I’d give for a good burger?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “A burnt one?” Sam pipes up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes, that is, in fact, what I mean by good,” Josh replies.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well it seems like she’s doing a good job. Your numbers look pretty good, probably better than before if I’m honest. So stick to it, but tell her she can let up on it once in a while. For special occasions. Like…” he shuffles through the papers. “Mr. Lyman, I didn’t even notice, it’s your birthday today!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh presses his lips together. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Happy birthday! What a way to spend it, huh?”<br/>“Donna’s fault.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Dr. Sanders shakes his head. “She’s a good one.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I know,” Josh says, almost under his breath. “I know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There are more questions, ones that Josh has gotten very familiar with answering, and the same lecture on lifestyle habits that’s he’s heard over and over again, and he’s sure he’ll continue to hear for the rest of his life, and that Donna regularly cites in defense of her rules. But finally Dr. Sanders relents and puts down his clipboard. “Now. We were going to discuss going back to work, weren’t we?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh’s eyes widen; the discussion has never actually gotten this far. “Yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re going to have to discuss this with your other doctors, of course, and your GP will be the one to make the final call, but… let’s see, you have your next appointment with me scheduled for November 2nd. After that, provided all is continuing the way it has been, I think I’ll be comfortable clearing you to go back to work. Remind me, how physically strenuous is your job?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s not,” Josh says, and Sam snorts in laughter behind him. “It’s really not, I sit behind a desk all day. Occasionally I go over to the hill and take some meetings there. I walk from my office to the Oval.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And you do it for eighteen hours a day,” Sam offers, causing Josh to shoot him a glare.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s important to remember that just because you’re going back to work does not mean you can jump right back into the kind of hours you had before,” Dr. Sanders warns. “And I’m sure Donna can be trusted not to let you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes, she does hold that kind of power over me. So anyway, you’re saying November 2nd, I can go back?” Josh throws a look at Sam, willing him not to pipe up with any additional information.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Dr. Sanders nods. “It’s up to your GP and depends on how the next two weeks go, but I think we can reasonably assume that as a goal. For working limited hours, mind you, not the insane schedule you kept before.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I hate to say it,” Sam says, “but Donna and the First Lady are both insistent that Josh wait until after the midterm elections to come back. He gets very stressed on election day.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shoots Sam a glare.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “When is the election?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “November 7th,” Josh says quickly. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a midterm, it’ll…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam laughs. “Josh, I’ve seen you on election days. Even midterm elections.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I was working in Congress back then, of course it was stressful! But we’re not the ones trying to get elected this time!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Dr. Sanders smiles wryly. “I think I have to agree with Sam. After Election Day gives us a good goal to reach for.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh sighs heavily.He knew Donna wouldn’t let him go back before the election—she’s already come up with plans to distract him from getting too stressed while polls are coming back—but it was still worth a try. “So, November 8th then?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Sometime like that. Keep doing what you’re doing, and listen to Donna and Sam here. I’ll see you in a few weeks,” he says, patting Josh’s knee. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh pulls his shirt back on, nods his thanks, and follows Sam out of the doctor’s office.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Seems like good news,” Sam says, unlocking the car. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah,” Josh agrees. “Although you didn’t need to bring up the midterms.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna would rather strap you to your bed than let you go back before election day and you know it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh wishes his mind wouldn’t go to the place that it does, but he forces a smile and tries to keep some kind of sense of dignity about him. “Hey, about earlier… why did you try to leave when I had to undress? You said it had something to do with Donna.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s nothing.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Sam.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “She… she told me you got all weird when she said she saw you naked.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Of course. Josh stares at his lap. “I didn’t get weird, I just…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You got weird.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh rolls his eyes. “You can’t think of a better word than ‘weird’, Mr. I-write-speeches-for-the-President-of-the-United-States?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam isn’t having any of it. “I just thought it you were uncomfortable with it with Donna you're probably at the point where you’re uncomfortable with it in general, and based on what she said…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I was uncomfortable <em>because</em> it was Donna, and because it was unexpected. She just barges into my room and tells me she’s seen me naked before—what am I supposed to do with that? I probably should have known or pieced it together, but I was on a hell of a lot of drugs and… it’s just weird, you know?” He leans back into the seat and sighs. “But I mean, you came over to help me shower and do the kinds of things I wouldn’t dream of letting Donna do, so I’ve kind of gotten over that with you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but he lets it slide. “You’ve got some heroic scars to show off now,” he says, deftly changing the subject.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Think they’ll scare off women or entice them?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Much like you, I think a bit of both,” Sam remarks. Josh hits his arm in response, but lets out a bit of a laugh. It doesn’t hurt to laugh anymore, not much at least, and so he can indulge subpar humor.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s already 5:30,” Josh notes. “Hey, want to go get some dinner?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam shakes his head. “Donna’s making dinner for you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I suffer from Donna’s cooking every day, let’s say we ditch and go get burgers. And beer. I haven’t had a beer in months, and I could really use a drink to forget about the pain of turning 39.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Aren’t you on like, three kinds of medications you’re not supposed to mix with alcohol?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shrugs. “Probably. What’s the worst that could happen?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Many, many bad things.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “So that’s a no?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You can be persuasive, Josh, but I don’t want to invoke Donna’s wrath.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I invoke it all the time. It’s not so bad, not really.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam shakes his head. “She lets you off easy because you’re the one who’s recovering. The rest of us? God help us if we so much as think about breaking one of the rules.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh scrubs his face with his hands and sighs. “Fine. I’ll put up with whatever vegetable-laden monstrosity Donna wants to shove down my throat on my birthday.” He knows she just wants him to get healthy, and he knows it’s good for him in the long run; he’s just tired of it, hitting yet another breaking point as if he hadn’t had enough already. He knows in the back of his mind that his life has changed irrevocably, but he just wants to pretend once in a while that none of this ever happened, that he is still the same person he was before that hot August night, before the bullets began flying. And maybe that involves drinking a beer and eating a burnt burger.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “She doesn’t have to do this, you know,” Sam says quietly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I know.” He’s thought about it time and time again, wondering why Donna puts up with him, wondering why she’s been sleeping on his couch for the past two months even though really, he can manage on his own at this point. He knows all too well what she’s been giving up to take care of him, and he doesn’t have a clue how to process or comprehend it. “Believe me, I know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam drives around the block to find a parking space, spotting one around the corner from Josh’s apartment. “Should I drop you off, or could you walk from there?”<br/>“Go ahead and park, I’ll be fine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> With a pleased look on his face, Sam pulls into the parking spot and they both emerge from the car. When they reach the steps of his apartment, Josh notes a couple cars that aren’t usually parked in front; someone must be having a party. No wonder they couldn’t find a nearby spot. He conquers the stairs without too much trouble—someday, he hopes, they won’t make him breathless at all—but he isn’t gasping for air and he thinks Sam might not even notice his heavy breathing, so he’s pleased with the progress.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There’s music coming from his apartment, which strikes him as odd. Donna likes music, but she rarely puts any on. He doesn’t take too much time to think about it before pushing open the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> What greets him is not at all what he expected. His apartment is bustling with activity. Five sets of eyes stop and turn to look at him as he steps inside. CJ and Toby are on the couch, beers in hand, while Charlie is standing with his hand on the radio, about to change the station. And Leo—Leo, who Josh hasn’t seen since he was discharged— is sitting in the armchair with a smile on his face. Donna looks like she’s in the process of emerging from the kitchen, but she stops to grin at Josh. There are decorations and balloons and a small pile of gifts on the table and he can smell something good coming from the kitchen.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What’s…” he starts, lost for words.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “We were all going to jump out at you and yell surprise as one does at a surprise party, but you’ve got a cardiac condition so we didn’t want to risk it,” Donna says matter-of-factly, as if she hasn’t just put on a surprise birthday party over his strenuous protest of no celebrations. “Happy birthday, Josh. I know you don’t like celebrating, but I also know you like to see your friends, so this seemed like a good excuse.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh turns to look at Sam. “Did you know this was happening?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam’s grin says everything. He slaps Josh on the back gently. “ Why’d you think I was the one to take you to the appointment? Come on, we’ve got some celebrating to do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Everyone gets up to greet Josh, offering up hugs or handshakes, and he lets a smile play at the edge of his lips. He’d never arrange a birthday party himself, or even let someone else do the celebration for him, which Donna knows. But she did it anyway, and he can’t help but be delighted to see his friends.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1"> Josh feels Donna press something into his hand. It’s a bottle of beer. He looks up at her quizzically. “I’m not allowed to have this,” he says, although he’s not sure why he’s protesting, since a beer sounds heavenly. “Rule number eight, right?”</span><br/>“Theoretically, yes, but I planned ahead. You only have one med that you absolutely can’t mix with alcohol, and I checked and made sure it was okay for you to go without it for the day, that’s the one I took out this afternoon,” Donna replies with a grin. “But you only get one. You have a…”<br/>“A sensitive system, yes, I know,” Josh replies, with a performative eye roll. “You’ve put quite a bit of planning into this, haven’t you?”</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna raises an eyebrow. “It’s not too hard when you’re pretty oblivious.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh doesn’t know how to respond to that. Instead, he takes a sip of his beer, savoring the sensation of the alcohol down his throat after so long. “Thank you,” he says quietly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Now, if you’ll head into the kitchen, you’ll notice that rule number eight has been suspended for the night. There’s a hideously overcooked burger and a mountain of fries awaiting you in there.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Really?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Only for the night,” Donna warns.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Good enough for me,” Josh replies. He can hardly stop himself from pulling her into an unexpected hug. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, it’s just a burger, you don’t…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “For everything,” he amends.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna allows herself to be fully engulfed in his embrace. “Thanks for sticking around. I just keep thinking… what if this day was different, and I…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He buries his face in her shoulder, not wanting to let go. “Don’t think about it. I’m here, you’ve been amazing, and I’m ready to enjoy the only birthday party I’ll probably ever like.” He lets go of her, realizing that he’s held on a little too long. If he hadn’t been surrounded by his coworkers and his boss, he might have never let go.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It is, in fact, the best birthday party he’s ever had. The one beer is more than enough to loosen him up after his long spell of forced sobriety, and the company instills him with energy that he would not have otherwise had, and he almost doesn’t think about the fact that he almost never got this birthday, although he’s acutely aware that it’s on everyone else’s mind.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh takes a sip of his beer and eats a couple of fries, and laughs at something CJ says. It’s a full, expressive laugh, but it doesn’t hurt his chest. He senses Donna’s eyes on him and he shoots her a reassuring smile.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’s 39 today, and he’s survived, and he’s almost back to himself, and for the first time since that August evening he doesn’t remember, everything feels alright.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Rule Number Seven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s1">Rule #7- Be Nice to the People Taking Care of You</span> </em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He knows as soon as he wakes up that it’s going to be a bad day.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There’s a rainstorm going on outside, which makes the scar tissue in his chest ache fiercely. His doctor has lowered his dosage of pain medication again, which is theoretically good because he’s finally down to the over-the-counter stuff, plus one prescription of Vicodin to take as needed, but he’s wishing he was back on the old dosage this morning.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He takes a look at his clock; it’s six. Too early, really, although he used to be in the office by six what feels like several lifetimes ago. Donna won’t have left yet; she seems to have embraced the lighter workload she has without him there and taken slightly more leisurely working hours. He should go back to sleep, but he can hear her moving around in the hallway, and he’s already too awake to fall asleep again. He could take the Vicodin that’s sitting on his bedside table, relieve the pain that’s flared up, and get a few more hours of sleep. That’s really what he should do.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> But he has other ideas.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He pulls himself out of bed and creeps toward the door, throwing it open to come face to face with a very frazzled Donna. She’s dressed, but her hair is still wet from the shower, her face is pale, and her eyes are wide. And clearly she was not expecting to see him this early.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh?” she sputters. “Josh, it’s six in the morning, go back to sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m slowly getting myself back to a work schedule,” he replies offhandedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. In truth, he really doesn’t think he could go back to sleep, not easily, but saying that will just worry her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s still two weeks away. And anyway, you’re not working until nine once you go back so this whole exercise is…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh clears his throat to interrupt her, hoping it doesn’t make him start coughing. At least he’s gotten over the constant morning coughing fits that plagued him for the early months of his recovery. “I have a proposition to make. You’re not gonna like it, but hear me out.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna stares at him blankly, her mouth already preparing itself in the shape of a ‘no’.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Let me go take a meeting on the hill today.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Absolutely not. Josh, how can you even…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He knows it’ll be a hard sell, and maybe he would have been better off asking for forgiveness rather than permission, but he swallows and continues. “I need to meet with Cartwright. I’ve called him six times and his staff won’t pick up because they know if I get to him, he’ll actually have to listen.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna crosses her arms over her chest. “No.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The domestic violence prevention bill- he’s not going to let it out of committee. Donna, if you won’t…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Why wouldn’t he let it out of committee?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Josh pauses. It’s not a yes, but it’s a step in the right direction. “I don’t know, because apparently his constituents think a wifebeater should be an aspiration rather than a piece of clothing?” He chuckles slightly but Donna frowns.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s not funny, Josh.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, it’s not,” he agrees quietly, shaking his head. “Donna, this bill is going to ensure there’s funding for women and children to get out of dangerous situations, and stricter sentencing guidelines for abusers, and…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m sure it’s a great bill,” she interrupts.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh sighs. “He’s scared to talk to me, or his staff is scared, because they know that once I get to him he’ll have no good reason not to let it through, which is why they won’t take my calls, but if I go there in person they can’t just ignore…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You can’t go, Josh,” Donna says quietly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m off most of the pain meds, I’m cleared to drive now, and it’s just one meeting. It’ll take 15 minutes, tops,” he argues, although he’s sensing that it’s a losing battle.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No,” she says adamantly. “Send someone else. Send me, even.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’d do that?” he asks, rolling the idea over in his head. It wouldn’t be quite as effective, but it might work.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shrugs. “You’re my boss, I do most things you ask of me. Within reasonable limits. The East German cocktail waitress is probably about as far as I’d go.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He smiles, and doesn’t mention that everything she’s done over the last several months probably counts as going much, much farther. “It might not be as convincing, but it could work. I really think it’s one of his staffers who’s stopping my calls. Cartwright’s an asshole, but he doesn’t hide from a fight. I’ll type up a memo for you to get all the info and know what to say, and you can go as my representative. Who knows, if I showed up they might just lock the door anyway.” He turns down the hallway and heads toward the table to get started.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, you really should go back to sleep,” Donna chides.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m awake now!” he yells back.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna leaves half an hour later with a detailed memo about Senator Cartwright and the domestic violence prevention bill and a promise to call Josh as soon as she is done with the meeting.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She’ll occasionally go up to take meetings on the hill with Josh, and once in a while he’ll send her to a meeting with an unimportant representative he deems not worth his time, but this is not some meeting with a powerless freshman Republican; he actually expects her to get something done with this meeting. He has plenty of staff under him—really, he should have sent one of them—but for some reason, he’s sending her. It’s a lot of pressure, and not something an assistant would normally do, but then again none of what she’s done in the last few months is what an assistant would normally do.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna does some work in the office before letting the bullpen know that Josh is sending her up to the hill at ten. She takes her bag as well as the memo Josh wrote out for her and heads out. The Capitol building has always intimidated her, although she supposes the White House was also incredibly intimidating at one point. She climbs the steps and searches the office directory; Josh knows every Senator’s office by heart, but she’s not so familiar.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She finds it, finally, and greets the man sitting at one of the desks in the front office. He’s pretty cute and put together, unlike most of the harried Congressional staffers she runs into; curly dark hair, blue eyes, and he actually manages to greet her with a smile. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Do you have an appointment?” he asks. “Ella’s out today, so I’m just filling it but I’m… you know, I’m a legislative staffer.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> ‘I’m not a secretary’ is what he’s saying, and Donna wonders if he’d be so quick to say that if he knew who she was. “I don’t,” she says. She holds out her badge, covering up her role designation with her fingers. “I’m here from the White House to meet with Senator Cartwright.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His eyes widen. “I’m afraid the Senator doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The Senator will make an exception for this meeting,” Donna says, projecting a confidence that she definitely doesn’t have. “That is, unless he wants the president to veto the renewal of the grants for that new dam they’re building out in your state. I’m sure your constituents will be thrilled when they find out the reason their power bills are so high is because their Senator couldn’t suck it up and find five minutes to meet with a representative from the President, who, I might add, is incredibly popular at the moment. They might just be so thrilled that they’ll decide your guy deserves an early retirement in two years, and they’ll let him know at the polls.” She finishes this off with a grin, and suddenly she understands why Josh gets such a thrill from his job sometimes. They’re all his words—she’s saying exactly what he told her to say—but it works, and she can’t help but get a rush of excitement.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The aide looks flustered, but he nods quickly and shuffles some papers. “I’m sure he can give you five minutes, I’ll just go…” He stands up and knocks on the door of the office behind him, and comes back out a minute later. “Go on in. He’s got a vote in half an hour though, so don’t…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna nods and steps into the office. The man behind the desk is exactly who she expected him to be; a white man in his 60s with graying hair and a tailored suit. He gives her a half smile when she comes in, but it’s mostly hiding a scowl. “What’s got Bartlet up in arms now?” he asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hello, Senator Cartwright,” she says, trying to keep on her own smile. “<em>President</em> Bartlet would like to know why you’re trying to keep the domestic violence prevention bill from getting to the floor.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He looks down at his desk again, clearly uninterested in the conversation. “Who are you, again? You’re not one of the usual Bartlet lackeys.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh Lyman sent me,” she says, and at that, Cartwright looks up.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Lyman couldn’t be bothered to come scream at me himself?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna gives him an incredulous look. Either Cartwright has forgotten, which seems unlikely given how extensive the news coverage was, or he’s just being rude. “He’s kind of busy recovering from a gunshot wound,” she says, trying to keep her tone even.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Right,” Cartwright replies, in a tone that indicates he doesn’t really care at all.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Your office wouldn’t take his calls.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m not going to let it through committee, no matter what Josh Lyman wants,” Cartwright says. “And just because he sends a pretty, vulnerable young woman to look at me with sad doe eyes to try and convince me I’m wrong on it doesn’t mean I’ll forget about the serious flaws in the bill and the way it criminalizes being a married man in a traditional family and…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna can feel her blood boil, but she doesn't think she’s informed enough or smart enough to get into this discussion with him. Not now, anyway. “You heard about the President’s threat about the dam grant funding, I’m sure. You don’t have to vote yes on the bill. You can add on whatever amendments, you can argue against it on the floor until you’re blue in the face. You just need to let it out of committee. You have political cover for this, but if you lose the grant, you certainly won’t have cover for that come election time.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He stares at her for a second, and then lets his face break into a smirk. “It’ll get out of committee,” he says cooly, “but you better believe it’ll be amended. And tell Lyman next time he wants to beg me for something, he better get down on his knees here himself.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna frowns. She wishes she could think of a witty insult, but she’s frankly a little afraid to try, and Cartwright is glaring at her. “Have a nice day, Senator,” she says with sarcasm dripping from her voice. She marches out of his office and lets the door slam shut behind her. She doesn’t even acknowledge the aide sitting behind the desk.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Or at least, she doesn’t until he runs after her in the hallway. He skids to a stop next to her as she’s about to pull out her phone to call Josh. “Hey,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Look, if you’re mad…” she starts. She doesn’t want to get in an argument with him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, no. I’m Kyle. Kyle Hendricks. I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot.” He holds out a hand and she shakes it reluctantly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna Moss.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He grins at her, a goofy grin that makes him look years younger. “Nice to meet you, Donna. I was wondering if you’d want to go have a drink with me tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Do you ask this to every woman who comes to yell at your boss?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Just the ones who impress me,” he replies.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna purses her lips. It might be a stupid idea—he’s obviously a Republican, and while she’s dated her fair share of Republicans she still has some doubts—but she hasn’t gone on a date in ages and she wonders if her reasons aren’t a little pathetic. Of course she cares for Josh and of course she wants to help him as much as possible, but she can’t put her entire love life on pause for that. And Kyle really is cute. Toby’s coming over to watch the World Series game with Josh, so he won’t be alone tonight, and really, he’s more than capable of being on his own at this point. Her list of excuses is getting shorter and shorter, and as she runs through them, she realizes that maybe she doesn’t really want an excuse.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> So she gives him a smile. “Okay. I don’t know if they put you through the same kind of insane hours over here, but are you free at seven?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Seven would be fantastic,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> And just like that, Donna has a date.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> When she gets back to the White House and calls Josh, she omits several things. She omits Cartwright’s amendment threat, hoping nothing will actually come of it, and she doesn’t bother to tell him about the date because she knows he’ll just about lose his mind. She’ll have to tell him later, but hopefully by that point he’ll be distracted enough by baseball to not care.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She throws herself into her work for the afternoon—even without Josh there, she’s never experienced a shortage of it—and decides to head out around four, even though she’s supposed to stay until five. No one will mind, and she’ll have to go back to her apartment to get ready for her date.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She has a date. She goes on plenty of dates, or at least she used to, but this is the first one in a long time, and she can’t help but be excited. He might not be the one—hell, she knows absolutely nothing about him except that he works for an asshole of a Senator—but it’ll be a nice change of pace regardless.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She decides to stop by Josh’s apartment first and make sure he has everything he needs, before heading back to her own and finding a long-untouched date outfit to wear. When she arrives and lets herself in, she can hear him talking on the phone, his voice agitated. He isn’t supposed to be working right now.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “This is ridiculous, he can’t add that! It makes the bill a complete joke, the president will have to veto it if it even manages to pass through Congress!” he says. Donna rounds the corner and sees his hair sticking up wildly, a telltale sign that he’s been frustrated. “What the hell happened with it?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She gets a sinking feeling that whatever he’s angry about has to do with her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh,” she interrupts quietly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He turns and gives her a glare. Yes, it absolutely has to do with her, she amends.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I have to get off now. Hopefully we can deal with it tomorrow—at this point, it might be better if it doesn’t make it out of committee,” he says, running his hand through his hair yet again. “Talk to you later.” He turns to give Donna the complete fullness of his earlier dirty look. “What the hell happened in the meeting with Cartwright?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She pales. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “He’s added an amendment saying that the provisions of the bill only apply to unmarried couples. According to the bill now, if you’re married, there’s no legal recourse for domestic violence.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna sinks down into the chair across from Josh. “That’s…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “He’s still killing the bill, he’s just going to do it in the most embarrassing way possible.” Josh’s voice is low and dangerous. “What happened in the meeting?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I don’t know.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He raises his voice. “What happened in the meeting?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I may have told him to let the bill out at any cost. I might have mentioned something about amendments, I don’t know, I really…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You told him to amend the bill?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Donna gulps. “Not outright, no, but I might have…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I can’t believe this!” He stands up and begins to pace, and Donna can’t help but notice that his stiff leg is dragging a bit as he does, but she’s more worried about how worked up he is. “You told him to amend it? I send you up for one meeting, and you tell the enemy to go ahead and change up this bill, this absolutely vital piece of legislation, so that it’s embarrassing to us? To Democrats? We have two weeks until the elections, Donna, this is not the time for us to be screwing things up!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Give Cartwright a little credit, he probably would have thought of ways to screw you over without my help,” Donna replies with frustration. “I said exactly what you wanted me to say to him, I may have thrown in a mention of bill amendments in my frustration, because he really is an asshole, but he’s been in the Senate long enough. He’s have thought of amending it already. I don’t deserve this from you.”<br/>“I should have gone myself,” Josh mutters, not looking at Donna.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s exactly what he wanted. I think he was a little embarrassed to be dealing with me. But do you really think the exact same thing wouldn’t have happened if you had gone?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh turns to glare at her. “I could have gotten through to him! Threatened him a little more effectively, put a little force behind it, and then we wouldn’t be dealing with this mess!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Why did you send me?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Why did you send me?” Donna asks. “Clearly if I’m not capable of…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He shakes his head and sits down again. “Yeah, maybe you’re not.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> That stings, but Donna tries not to show it. She really thought she had done enough at that meeting, but it’s just another reminder that while she’s good at what she usually does, no one thinks she’ll ever be good at anything else. “If there’s anything I can do to help fix it…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s not going to get fixed,” he says slowly. “We’re going to have to drop it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Because I screwed it up.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna doesn’t think it’s fair that she’s getting all the blame, but she knows better than to argue with Josh over it when he’s in this kind of mood. So she changes the subject. “Toby will be over at 7:30 for the game,” she says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh bites his lip and sighs. “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re not excited for it? I thought a Yankees-Mets World Series would be the highlight of your time as a baseball fan?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yankees won the last two games,” he says with a sigh, “and Toby’s going to be gloating about it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The Mets can still come back,” she says, although she’s really not sure how it works.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m going to be out tonight, but do you need anything?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh turns to look at her with a quizzical expression on his face. “Where are you going?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She had hoped against hope that he wouldn’t ask that question. She can’t lie to him, or at least she can’t think of a believable lie fast enough. “I’m going on a date,” she says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “With who?” he sputters. He was already worked up before, but she can tell this is going to take it to a whole new level.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Just a guy I met,” she says. “I meet guys, Josh. I’m a woman of the world.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’ve been nowhere but my apartment and the White House for months. How could you have possibly met a man? Where would you have… unless…” his face pales. “No, Donna. Don’t tell me he’s…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She presses his lips together. She can’t meet his eyes, not like this. “He works for Cartwright.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna! You can’t go out with him, he’s…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What, the enemy?” she replies dryly, trying to restrain herself from rolling her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She shakes her head. “Have you ever considered that maybe he just needed a job? That maybe not everyone can be like you and drop a senior advisory role to the front-runner for the presidency on a whim to go work for some long-shot from New Hampshire? That sometimes people have to worry more about how they’re going to pay their rent than about how much they like the policies of the guy they work for?”<br/>“Donna, I worked in Congress for a long time, and believe me when I tell you…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Look, if you fired me tomorrow and the only job I could get was working for a Republican, I’d take the job! I don’t have the luxury of pontificating on whether I like the finer point of a politician’s policy and you can’t expect me to blame someone else for that either.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “This is a ridiculous hypothetical, I’m not going to fire you!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Of course that’s what he’s fixated on. “Good!” she shouts. “Because I’ve done nothing to deserve it! But I’m just saying, if…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Don’t go out with him!” Josh stands up again, slamming his hand on the table.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s absolutely unfair of you to ask,” she replies defiantly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you! After what Cartwright did today, after how he’s going to embarrass this administration, how can you possibly…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’s interfered with her dates before, and she normally takes it good-naturedly, but this is a step too far. “You have NO right to try to tell me I can’t go on a date! I’ve spent the last two months giving up my time and energy, sleeping on your goddamn couch, trying to help you, and this is how you repay me?” She marches over to the fridge and pulls the laminated listed off of it. “Here we are, rule number seven. Be nice to the people taking care of you! I have put up with so much of your crap lately because you had been hurt and you were in pain but I’m sick of it, Josh. You can’t step on every opportunity I have to live my life just because it amuses you, especially not when I haven’t been on a date in MONTHS. And tell me, Josh, why do you think that is?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Because you took care of me,” he says quietly, although his tone is not conciliatory. He is seething too.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Because I took care of you,” she repeats. “Because you asked me to.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well maybe I don’t need it anymore! Go on your date, go have dinner and dessert and disappointing Republican sex and don’t bother coming back here because if you haven’t noticed, I’m doing perfectly fine and maybe I don’t need to be stifled by your arbitrary rules anymore! Just… leave me alone!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna stops a moment, stunned and wide-eyed, before letting her gaze darken. “Great. Glad to hear it. I’ll see you at work in two weeks,” she says coldly. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It isn’t until she gets out to her car—her car, which she hasn’t driven in weeks because Josh insisted she drive his much more reliable one while he couldn’t—that she lets her face and her resolve crumble.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh watches as she leaves, scrubbing his face with his hand.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He probably shouldn’t have said those things, but he’s too angry and on edge to admit that to himself. And besides, it’s not like he isn’t fine on his own now; he’s been cleared to drive again, he can do pretty much everything he could do before (albeit more slowly and with significantly more aches and pains), and he certainly doesn’t need her to stay on his couch. He’ll be back at work in two weeks, and he can manage until then.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Still.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He tries to push away the guilt already building up inside of him, tries to justify himself, tries to feel like maybe what he said wasn’t that bad. He’ll focus on other things. That’s easy enough to do, considering how the storm outside has caused the pain in his chest to flare up in a way that is not easily dulled by Tylenol. His back and his arm and his leg are all protesting their very existence too, and he wonders in desperation if there will ever be a day when they don’t. He considers the bottle of Vicodin on his bedside table but he’d rather have the pain; if he thinks about the physical, he doesn’t have to think about what he said.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He drags himself over to the couch, finding that he doesn’t have the energy to get up again.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He might have fallen asleep, or he might have spent hours tormenting himself, but he’s really not sure when he hears a knock on the door. Usually he’d get up to answer it, but he figures it’s unlocked and he’s still feeling drained. “Come in,” he says, hoping against hope that it might be Donna.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It’s not— instead, it’s Toby, wearing his usual sour facial expression, an almost humorous contrast to the way he is decked out in a Yankees hat and jersey. He’d been trying every night of the World Series to come over and watch it with Josh, but this is the first night he’s been able to get away in time. “How’s it going?” he asks, looking slightly concerned that Josh hasn’t gotten up to greet him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s fine,” Josh replies, his voice tight.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Where’s Donna?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s just us tonight. She’s on a date,” he says, trying not to let his derision show too much.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby takes off his shoes and seats himself in an armchair. “So no one’s going to be here to prevent us from killing each other?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Seems like it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh finally summons the energy to push himself up from the couch. “Want a beer? I don’t think I have any food, but we could order a pizza.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Isn’t that against like three of the rules?” Toby asks, as if he’s ever had any respect for Donna’s regulations. He, out of any of the staff, has been the most liable to break them.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The rules are irrelevant,” Josh replies coldly. “Beer?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Sure.” Toby watches with thinly veiled worry as Josh shuffles toward the kitchen without any of the energy or vivacity he had the last time they were together. Maybe he shouldn’t encourage Josh’s rule-breaking behavior, but frankly, Toby thinks the night might go a lot easier if Josh has a drink in him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh comes back with two beers and a concerted effort not to let his stiff leg drag too much. He hands one to Toby, seats himself on the couch with a groan, and points the remote at the TV, without saying another word. In the silence, his stomach growls embarrassingly loudly, but it’s very low on the list of embarrassing things his body has done in the last few months, so he barely even notices.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby does, though. “Did you order a pizza?” he asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No. Want one?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You sound like you haven’t eaten all day.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh considers this. “Yeah, I haven’t really. I’ll go…” he begins to get up, but he can't stop the groan from escaping as he does.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ll call,” Toby says, standing quickly. “Pepperoni?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Always,” Josh replies, a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “Donna won’t let me…” But he drifts off while talking about Donna, his eyes growing cloudy. “Yeah, pepperoni would be great.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby orders the pizza and takes his seat again, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees. “Who’s Donna going out with?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh frowns. “It’s ill-advised. I don’t want to talk about it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I figured as much.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Why?” Josh demands.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Because when I called Donna to make sure it was still okay to come over, she burst into tears. She wouldn’t tell me why, and she said you were fine, but clearly something is going on.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh’s face is like stone.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby sighs heavily. “Look, Josh, I’m certainly not inclined to get involved in your personal life…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Great. Don’t.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And the only reason I’m here is so that I can watch the Yankees kick the asses of your guys all over Shea Field.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Not gonna happen tonight, but…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby sighs. “Despite my best efforts, I consider you a friend. And that’s why I’m gonna ask you a question as a friend.” He takes a deep breath and looks at Josh, who is steadfastly staring as if there is something very interesting happening not on the TV, but right above it. “Why do you have such a problem with Donna going on dates?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s what you wanted to ask me? I don’t have a problem with Donna dating, I just… he works for Cartwright, Toby! Cartwright, who just politically mortified the White House, and she’s going out with his staffer! You expect me to be thrilled about that?”<br/>“No,” Toby says, not matching Josh’s raised voice. “No, but I also don’t think that’s the reason you’re upset.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What are you trying to do, psychoanalyze me?” Josh scoffs.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Believe me, there’s nothing I’d rather do less. But be honest; you’re just as upset when she dates a Democrat. You don’t like it when she dates anyone.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Sure, I don’t like it. What does it matter?” His voice is reaching a peak of agitation.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Why was Donna so upset?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh doesn’t want to say, because the answer certainly doesn’t make him look good, and he’s really starting to regret what he said. What did he say, anyway? He had been so heated in the moment, and now he can hardly remember what had made him so angry. On principle, of course, he hates the idea of Donna dating anyone. He’ll claim the contrary, but he doesn’t like to watch her go out with people. He doesn’t know why that is, he really doesn’t. Sam and Toby couldn’t be less interesting in the dating lives of Ginger and Bonnie, and he’s certain Leo has never once discussed the subject with Margaret. So why should he care so much?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I don’t like it,” he says, pointedly not answering Toby’s question, “because she never dates guys that are good enough for her.” He cringes at how that answer makes him sound like an overprotective father, because that’s certainly not it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> But then again, the alternative might just be admitting that he’s breaking rule number ten. And that is the most sacred of the rules, the one he’ll never break, because that’s the one that has actual consequences.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Great. You didn’t answer my question,” Toby catches. “Why was Donna so upset?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I don’t know, why do you care?” Josh’s tone is belligerent and he can’t manage to meet Toby’s eyes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby’s gaze turns cold. “You didn’t see her like I saw her. When you were… I had to tell her that you were shot, that you were in surgery… I had to tell her we weren’t sure you’d pull through, and some days I still can’t get the face she made out of my head. She didn’t leave for the fourteen hours of your operation and I…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh swallows. He’s not sure he wants to know this.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s not to mention all the time she spent by your side in GW, all she’s done for you here… I think she deserves better from you than this and so I’ve apparently taken it upon myself to kick your ass. So I’m gonna ask you again. Why was Donna so upset?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Because I told her she couldn’t go on the date,” Josh admits.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby shakes his head. “I knew you were an idiot sometimes, but this might just take the cake.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh has to admit to himself that it was pretty stupid to think that he could order her not to go; if he had made up an excuse, or been a little more clever about it, he might have prevented her from going. But that doesn’t get to the root of why he so desperately didn’t want her to go. And he’s not sure he wants to go there. “Then we may have fought about it, and I may have told her I don’t need her being here anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I know! I know!” He holds his hands up defensively.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Do you still need her here?” Toby asks pointedly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Not physically, I’m really doing a lot better, I…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Do you still need her here?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh looks up to meet Toby’s steady gaze. “I want her here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Okay then.” Toby doesn’t say anything more.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Okay then what?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Toby rolls his eyes. “Apologize to her! I don’t know, why are you asking me for advice on this?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Because you’re here and you were pretty determined to give advice earlier!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That moment is over,” Toby says. “I just needed you to figure out that you’re a jackass, and do something about it, because the last thing we need when you’re finally back at work is you and Donna pissed off at each other.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh runs a hand through his hair and sighs heavily. “I don’t think she’s coming back tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “If her date goes well enough, I should think not.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Toby!” Josh shakes his head. “She said she’d see me in two weeks. I don’t think she’s coming back at all.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well, you are capable of fixing that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “How?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Toby rolls his eyes. “Through the miracle of modern technology. You have a phone, she has a phone, call her!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh is about to get up to grab the phone when he stops himself short. “I don’t want to ruin her date.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Really?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, I absolutely want to ruin her date. But I won’t.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> A smile plays a the edges of Toby’s lips. “He has a modicum of maturity! Who would have thought?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Josh throws a pillow across the room in response, and is impressed when he actually manages to hit Toby. Physical therapy is paying off. “Come on, the pizza should be here soon and the Mets are gonna win tonight. I have a good feeling about this.” At Toby’s look, he adds, “I promise I’m not trying to deflect, I’ll call her after her date.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It’s the seventh inning, the game is tied, the pizza is gone, and both Josh and Toby are yelling at their teams when Toby’s cell rings. He picks it up, unintentionally hitting the speakerphone button as he does so that the caller’s voice fills the whole room.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Toby?” It’s Donna.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh stiffens at hearing her voice.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What’s up, Donna?” Toby asks. He should really switch off of speakerphone, but he thinks that might just add to Josh’s stress level.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Umm… Toby, I’m really sorry to call you but CJ had to stay to do a briefing and Sam is in a meeting for another hour but it’s pouring and I’m already soaked and…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna, what’s going on?” Toby asks calmly, glancing over at Josh who is very much not calm.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “My car broke down,” she admits. “I think it’s just a battery thing and it might work after it gets jumped and I really can’t afford to call a tow truck or get it fixed so…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby nods. “I’ll see if I can come and jump it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Thank you so much! And maybe… don’t tell Josh why you’re leaving,” Donna says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh grimaces, but he doesn’t say anything. That is, until Toby hangs up the phone. “I’m coming with you,” he declares.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No,” Toby says, standing up and pulling on his coat.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes, I am.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, it’s practically a hurricane out there and we’re all going to get soaked and Donna will kill me if I let you go stand out in the middle of a storm and get yourself sick because of it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “For one,” Josh argues, also standing up, “that’s a theory of illness pretty much disproved by high school biology. For another, if Donna wants to kill someone she can get to me first.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby rolls his eyes and opens the door as Josh pulls on his coat. “Fine, but I’m holding you to that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well, we know that whatever gomer she was out with was a bust,” Josh comments as he follows Toby. The rain is really coming down steadily, and the wind is whipping, and they’re both already soaked by the time they make it across the street and into Toby’s car.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You don’t need to sound so delighted.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Seriously, he wouldn’t have been that far away! Why wouldn’t she have called him unless the date went terribly?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby bangs his head against the steering wheel. “I understand the logic, I’m just saying you probably should try to avoid sounding so joyous about the failures of Donna’s dating life.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> They drive in silence toward the address Donna gave Toby, until Josh spots her car pulled onto a side street and Toby pulls up behind her. Donna is standing outside of her car, completely soaked and looking rather forlorn.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh jumps out of the car, ignoring his aching body, to run towards her. “Donna!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She looks none too pleased to see him, and he’s not sure if it’s because he’s broken the rules or because she’s still angry with him, but he desperately hopes it’s the former. “What are you doing here? I told Toby not to…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby, holding his rain jacket over his head awkwardly, comes over and sighs. “He heard the call, and there was no dissuading him.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You shouldn’t be out here in this, Josh. You shouldn’t really be out at all,” Donna chides.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh doesn’t have a response for her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby climbs into the front seat of the car and attempts to turn it on, then opens up the hood and peers inside ineffectively. “Donna, I don’t know what exactly is wrong, but it’s not a battery thing. It’s going to have to get towed.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I can’t afford that,” Donna says quietly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ve got it,” Josh volunteers.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She turns to look at him with sad eyes. “Josh, you can’t…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I know you’ve gotten used to telling me what I can’t do, but this is not one of those things. It’s the least I can do, really, after everything…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna hesitates, but she finally nods. “Okay.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I told you that thing was a piece of junk.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You think I wasn’t aware of that?” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh picks up his phone and dials a tow truck. “They should be here in 15 minutes,” he announces after he slams the phone shut. He leans against the trunk of Donna’s car; it’s soaking wet, but so is he at this point, so he can’t bring himself to care.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You need to wait in the car,” Donna says critically. “You’re already soaked and you know as well as anyone that you really shouldn’t be getting sick…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Again, did no one around here take high school biology?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Waiting in the car sounds like an excellent idea,” Toby mutters, slamming the hood of Donna’s car closed. “Except for the fact that the seats are going to be soaked and they’ll smell for weeks after. Remind me why we didn’t take your car?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh opens the back door of Toby’s car and shrugs. “Because while I just got cleared to drive again, I haven’t yet, and I really don’t think anyone wants the first time I drive in months to be in this kind of weather.” He slides in, and to his surprise, Donna slides in the back next to him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Who’s winning the game?” she asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It was tied when we left. Hey Toby, turn on the radio so we can catch the end of it!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby sighs but starts the car just in time for the commentator to announce that the Mets had scored and pulled ahead in the game. Josh lets out a whoop. “That’s how we do it at Shea, baby!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Congratulations on not murdering him tonight,” Donna says to Toby.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Night’s not over yet,” replies Toby tightly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The tow truck arrives just as the ninth inning is about to start and Donna’s ancient car is taken away. The game ends with a Mets victory as Toby pulls in front of Josh’s apartment.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Want to come in?” Josh asks, as he and Donna step out of the car. They had never discussed where Donna wanted to head back to, but she doesn’t protest getting out here.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The sooner I get away from here, the less of your gloating I have to hear,” Toby remarks. “That said, the Yankees are still ahead and they’re gonna win the series and when they do, you will be hearing about it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh laughs. “I admire your ability to say that with a straight face. Hey, thanks for coming over tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And thanks for coming to rescue me,” Donna adds.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Toby gives a grunt of acknowledgement and drives away. Josh and Donna ascend the steps of his apartment in silence, Josh’s hand lingering just inches away from Donna’s back.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You should go take a shower. Warm up a little,” Josh says when they get inside.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You should go first,” Donna argues, and rolls her eyes at his look. “I’m serious! You don’t need hypothermia on top of everything else.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I had a rain jacket. You have nothing but… that.” He points to her blue dress, which is completely soaked and probably ruined. “You didn’t just buy that, I hope.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head. “I didn’t have time to go shopping. But it’s probably ruined now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s been raining all day, why didn’t you bring a jacket?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She shrugs. “It didn’t go with the outfit and I thought… I thought the night might go differently.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh presses his lips together. He’s definitely going to ask about the date later, but for now he’ll let it go. “Go take a shower, and I’ll get in after.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “As long as you get out of those wet clothes right now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Deal.” Josh replies, heading to his bedroom to undress. He runs a hand through his hair, which, despite his hooded jacket, is still somehow wet. Donna’s here. Donna came back, and while he’s not sure she would have under normal circumstances, she’s at least here and maybe he’ll be able to talk to her. He hopes against hope that she won’t leave before he’s showered.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He hears the water turn off and the door open, but he doesn’t see her when he heads toward the shower. He takes it as quickly as possible, because he doesn’t want her to leave. He never has wanted her to leave. There’s a running list of things he can say to her, things he should say to her, but the overwhelming thought that plagues him is simply ‘please don’t leave’.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Dry and warm and dressed in the massive pajamas that CJ gifted him, Josh heads towards the living room and is relieved to see Donna sitting on the couch, dressed in her own pajamas. She’s here and she’s not leaving. He sits down next to her; there’s more space on the other side of the couch but he wants to be close to her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “How did the date go?” he asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Infuriatingly, you were right,” Donna replies, not quite looking at him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Usually, that would be a cause for Josh to gloat, but he puts a hand behind her back and simply whispers, “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “He’s a world-class misogynist. Asked me right off the bat how many kids I wanted to have, railed on about the amount of women in government…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh desperately wants to make a crack about Republicans but he keeps his mouth shut. “Donna, I’m really sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s not your fault, it’s just… it was my first date in a long time and I just wanted to have a nice night but halfway through dinner I was already trying to tune him out and then my car broke down and…” To his surprise, she starts crying and buries her face in his shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’s not exactly the most emotionally adept of people, but even he can tell that this is about more than her miserable date. “I really am sorry, Donna.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Can you please stop saying that? It wasn’t your fault this guy was a dick,” she mumbles into his shirt.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Not about that. About what I said to you earlier.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She lifts her head and looks up at him with red eyes. “Josh, I know you didn’t…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I have no right to tell you what to do, and I have no right to be a jerk to you, and I’m really, really grateful for everything you’ve done for me. Donna, I might complain about the rules but if I didn’t have you here… well I think I’d be in a much worse place, both physically and mentally. What I said was absolutely out of line, so I sincerely apologize for it. And I want to ask if I can take back my request for you to leave.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna bites her lip and stares at him for a moment. “Josh, you know I can’t stay here forever. I’d like to sleep in my own bed again at some point. Like you said, you’re capable of taking care of yourself now. We’re going to have to transition away from this soon, and now seems like an appropriate time to start.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His face falls. “Donna, I…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “But I can stay tonight,” she adds. It’s all he needs to hear, all the forgiveness he needs to receive.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He wraps his arm around her fully and pulls her close to him, and she leans her head on his shoulder. It’s tantalizingly intimate, but it feels like the right thing to do.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You shouldn’t have come with Toby tonight. Rule number five,” she cites.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I was fine.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’ve been in pain all day.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh frowns. Sometimes he wishes she couldn’t read him so well. “I needed to come see you. I needed to make sure you came back, so that I could apologize. I needed to fix it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And you thought standing in the rain for no good reason was going to be the way to do that?” Her murmur is soft, but there’s a cutting edge to it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah…” he replies.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re an idiot, you know that?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He can barely think, not when her head is resting on his shoulder and he can touch her side softly. “So I’ve been told.” He almost doesn’t dare breathe. “I’m going to miss you,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, we work together. You’re going to see me plenty,” Donna replies, her voice holding just a hint of indignation. “We have to go back to how things were before.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He presses his lips together and greets her assertion with silence.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s a good thing, Josh,” Donna continues, sensing his hesitation. “It means you’re getting back to your old self. It means things can go back to normal.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m not sure I’ll ever get my old self back,” he says quietly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Now she’s the one who doesn’t know what to say, because she can’t argue with that. He probably won’t ever be quite the same, because she knows she won’t ever be quite the same either. And suddenly, the idea of things going back to normal seems laughable. How can they be normal when they’ve lived together like this, when they’ve suffered through these difficult months by leaning on each other? The changes, not only in him but in their relationship, seem irrevocable.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> But they have to go back to how they were. He’s her boss, she’s his assistant, and while they’ve always been friends, anything beyond that is out of line for their professional relationship. So she pushes down any feelings that she wishes she could let out and takes her head off of his shoulder. That can’t be allowed anymore. “Maybe not entirely, but it’ll be like you never left.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah,” he says, although he doesn’t sound convinced.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ll stay tonight,” she repeats, “but I really have to go back to my apartment at some point. I’ll come over after work since I know you’ll get lonely otherwise, but we need to make our way back to normal.” She reaches out to squeeze his hand. “Normal is good, Josh.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She stands up and holds out a hand to pull him up off the couch, since he doesn’t seem to quite have the energy to do it himself. “Thanks for coming out to get me tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It was Toby,” he responds. “I just tagged along against his wishes.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You really shouldn’t have, but it was very sweet of you to do it anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He takes a few steps towards his bedroom but stops to turn around. “I just thought… if I didn’t come, if I didn’t see you tonight, you might not have come back. And that I couldn’t have borne.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Oh, Josh…” she exhales. “I was pissed, and I think rightly so, but I would have come back. Maybe not tonight, but… I would have come back.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh nods and turns back, taking a few more stiff steps before stopping once more. “Take my car tomorrow, and whatever is wrong with yours, I’ll get it fixed.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You don’t have to…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I want to,” he says firmly. “Please. I’m trying to be better at following rule number seven.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna puts her hand to her mouth in an attempt to hide the emotion that is beginning to overwhelm her. “You’re off to a good start.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Rule Number Five</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s1">Rule #5: No Extraneous Trips</span> </em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey Sam.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What’s up?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Is Donna there?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, I can get her if you need…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, no, I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t like… eating lunch with you or something.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I don’t like the sound of this, Josh.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Don’t worry about it. It’s just… I need you to help me to break into the White House.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Silence lingers on the other side of the line for a minute before Sam bursts into laughter.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m serious!” Josh defends adamantly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “By break into the White House, do you mean scaling the fence and making a break for it? Because that’s a really good way to get yourself shot again.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shakes his head and chuckles, wishing he could see Sam’s face. That, he thinks, is the worst part of all the work he’s been doing from home. He misses the faces of his friends. “I was more thinking you could convince security to let me in…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Why? You can’t wait another week to come back?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I want to go to the bill signing for the prescription drug price controls bill. I’ve spent the last week on the phone with half the Senate and I’d love to see the fruits of my labor.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’ve been to plenty of bill signings, Josh, you know they’re not really that exciting. What is it actually?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh bites his lip. “You’re sure Donna’s nowhere near you?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I want to do something nice for her. But if I tried to get her to leave my apartment with me, she’d barricade the door to keep me from leaving. So I figure if we start from the White House, I might actually get somewhere.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “So the bill signing is your excuse.”<br/>“I guess. I mean, it would be nice to see the look on the majority leader’s face when he has to accept the fact that I pulled ten Republican votes out from under him,” Josh brags. “And that was all from my kitchen table.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He can almost hear Sam roll his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What do you want to do for Donna?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Take her out to dinner. Someplace really nice. It can’t possibly make up for everything, but I have to do something. I still feel bad about her date going so badly and I…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “So you’re going to take Donna on a date?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh almost drops the phone before sputtering, “It’s not a date! It’s a nice dinner to show my appreciation for everything she’s done for me before we’re back at work and there’s no time to do it. I’m going to surprise her there and then there’s no way she’ll be able to say no to it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Sam is silent again for a moment.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “So will you do it? Will you sneak me in?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “This is a ridiculous and convoluted plan, Josh.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He knows that. And on some level, it’s probably unnecessary, but he’s crawling out of his skin and he’s not sure he’ll make it one more week without going out to do something. Donna deserves something like this, anyway, and he wants to pull out all the stops to make it memorable. “But you’re going to help me?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I will, but I think we might have to make a deal with the First Lady.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh lets himself break into a smile. “I think we can manage that. Oh, and get CJ in there. I need her help too.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Dr. Abigail Bartlet had personally taken it upon herself to ban Josh from entering the White House, going so far as to warn the security officers who manned the entrance to kick him out (and call her) if he so much as stepped foot in the building. All of that seemed like overkill to Josh, considering that Donna would never allow him to make it that far. But the rule still stood, at least until Sam trekked over to the East Wing and relayed Josh’s plea to lift the ban.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She had agreed, but her agreement had a price.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Which is why Josh is sitting on the couch in the residence with his shirt unbuttoned and a stethoscope on his chest for what has to be the third time this week.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Just my luck my boss’s wife is a thoracic surgeon,” Josh mutters. Sam has abandoned him, citing actual work that needs to be done. Josh would give anything to go straight to his office and start on some actual work, but there’s still another week before he’s allowed to do that. And anyway, doing that would give away to Donna that he’s here.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Abbey frowns as she pulls away from her chest. “What a shame you have people who care about your health and well-being even though they’re not paid to do so,” she replies, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She gives it just as well as Josh. “Have all of your doctors cleared you to go back next week?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh nods. “Everyone but the pulmonologist, and I’m seeing her tomorrow and I imagine she’ll concur.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes,” Abbey says, wrapping up the stethoscope and placing it in her bag. “Well, I’m not going to be able to tell you anything new. I was just curious to see how the repair is looking. They did a fantastic job it seems, really, especially considering the circumstances.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> A shadow seems to fall over Josh’s face as he lets out a strangled, “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I don’t think I need to tell you how lucky you are, but I have no hesitation in lecturing you about taking good care of yourself because you’ve been so damn lucky. Donna’s rules aren’t going to last forever, but you should keep them in mind. Especially your diet.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh would have groaned if it wasn’t the First Lady. “I’ll do my best. You might have to talk to your husband about the ‘reducing stress’ bit of things though.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Oh believe me, he gets this lecture too,” Abbey says. “Button up, you’ve got a bill signing to get to. When you get back to work, you should see the doctor on call here for BP readings; they don’t usually have too much to do and it saves you the trip. Or, if all else fails, I’ll take it for you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh nods and buttons up his shirt, grateful that his fingers are fully cooperating. “Thank you, ma’am.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Enjoy your date with Donna tonight,” she says with a knowing grin.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s absolutely not a date,” Josh argues. “It’s a dinner to show my appreciation for her.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “At one of the most romantic restaurants in DC?”<br/>“That’s a highly subjective judgment, ma’am,” Josh says, although he blushes at the thought.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hmm. Well, enjoy yourself tonight, and don’t push yourself too hard. My husband is counting on having you back next week, and I know you don’t want to disappoint him.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No, I don’t,” Josh says softly, standing up from the couch and heading towards the door. “Thanks. For you know, letting me back in here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Against my better judgment,” Abbey says, although she flashes him a smile.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It’s strange to walking the halls of the West Wing again. He had left his office three months ago, surely in a state of disarray, and then he…hadn’t come back. And now he’s in these corridors he knows so well on the way to the Mural Room.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He startles at a hand on his shoulder. It’s Sam, who greets him with a grin. “You passed Dr. Bartlet’s test?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Apparently so,” Josh says, adjusting his pace to match Sam’s. He had forgotten how fast everyone around here walks. He’s honestly not sure how long he can keep up, but thankfully they’re only a few long strides away from the Mural Room.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The signing is a blur; Josh doesn’t think he’s seen that many people in a single room since he left the town hall, and all of them, even the ones who never likes him in the first place, feel the need to ask him how he’s doing. For some, it’s out of genuine concern, but for others, it feels like a malicious gloat. Josh tunes most of it out, except for greeting President Bartlet, who squeezes his shoulder once the bill is signed and most of the attendees have filed out and for once, is lost for words.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re coming back next week?” he finally asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes, sir,” Josh says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Good,” the President affirms. “We were getting tired of blaming all our problems on Toby.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh grins appreciatively and accepts the proffered handshake, squeezing with as much strength as he can muster. There’s no weakness in him anymore, or at least that’s how it has to be. He’s practically healed, isn’t he?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Now, Sam told me you’re going on some sort of date with Donna?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Not a date, sir,” Josh says, wondering how many people Sam had blabbed to using incorrect terminology. Clearly not CJ at least, since he’s still…well…alive. “Just taking her out to dinner to show my appreciation.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Good, good, I didn’t want to have to get HR involved.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “HR answers to me,” Josh says, a cocky smile playing at the edges of his mouth. Not that it matters- he’s more than aware that any kind of relationship would Donna would have worse consequences than a meeting with HR. Not that he’s thought about it ever. Even that might break rule number ten.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> President Bartlet seems comforted by Josh’s attitude, and with another fatherly pat on the back, he heads back toward the Oval.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What now?” Sam asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You were there when we planned this,” Josh replies, following Sam towards the communications bullpen. “The reservation isn’t until seven; it’s five now. We have to wait for CJ to do her thing.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “So you’re going to come hide in my office?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shrugs. “Yeah. Unless I can convince you to let me in mine…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No,” Sam says firmly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yours it is, then.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna takes a glance at the clock. She feels like she should head out, but she supposes there’s no need to and there’s plenty of work for her to finish still. She’ll go check on Josh later this evening, but not so much because he needs her help anymore but because she knows he’ll get lonely if he doesn’t see anyone.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She’s been sleeping in her own bed for the past week, and while it’s been doing wonders for her back, she can’t help but miss hearing him snoring down the hall, or the quiet of his street compared to her apartment on a busy corner, or the water pressure in his shower, or just him in general. She thinks briefly back to what he warned her, the one rule he made. She’s not allowed to fall in love with him. Easy enough, right?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna is afraid she broke that rule before it even existed. She broke it the minute she heard he took a bullet to the chest, the minute she realized he was a centimeter from death and there was nothing to do but wait. She knew, and yet she wonders now if maybe that’s just how she reacts when people she cares about almost die. She thankfully has only had to experience it the once.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Anyway, they’ve been in this weird place for all these months of his recovery, and the abnormality of it all make it easy to seem like she’s in love with him, but obviously that isn’t true. It can’t be true. She’ll be proven wrong when he’s back at work and suddenly they’re back to being boss and assistant and bantering as a way to pass the time and deal with an incredible stressful work environment and it will all mean nothing.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It will mean nothing.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Still, she misses his apartment. It’s so much nicer than hers, and instead of her loud roommate and the evil cats that share her apartment, it’s got Josh in it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She left things there. Quite a few things, actually. Little ones, like shampoo and body wash and one of her mugs because he’s got no dishes and an afghan and a sweatshirt that she stole from him and all sorts of other little things. It’s been two months, so obviously the items she brought over have gotten a little scattered. And she’ll be able to come back, to have a reason to come back, if she needs to, without making him feel like she’s trying to check in on him or worse, making him realize that she has broken his one rule.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna sighs and takes another look at the clock. She still has a mountain of things to get through; Josh dumped a whole lot of research assignments on her this morning and she’s only gotten through half of them. She figures they’re not too important, but he’ll need some help catching up, so she dutifully researches and summarizes on index cards and in the process learns things she never thought she’d know.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She’s deeply absorbed in her work when she feels a hand on her shoulder. “CJ!” she exclaims, although she’s not sure if it’s out of shock or excitement.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey, are you busy tonight?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “When tonight? I was going to see Josh, but…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Right now,” CJ says. “Come on, we’re going shopping.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “CJ, don’t you have work… a briefing, something?” Shopping? Since when did anyone in the White House take off early to go shopping?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Lid’s on for the day,” CJ says. “Look Donna, I heard about your date and I…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna sighs. Of course she did; if Josh didn’t blab about it to her, Toby had heard all about it too. But who was she kidding, it was definitely Josh who told her. “CJ, it was a crappy date, but I don’t…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Believe me, I’ve been on plenty of those. But you’ve been working so hard here and taking care of Josh for the last few months that you deserve a break. A fun evening. And because the men in this building are idiots and don’t recognize that, I’ve taken it upon myself to make sure you get it.”<br/>Donna blinks rapidly and looks away. “CJ, I don’t know what to…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m not taking no for an answer, Donna,” CJ replies. “Come on. You’ve got another few days before Josh is terrorizing the place and not letting you go home until three in the morning.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well I’m forcing him to go home at six when he comes back next week—doctor’s orders—so I think I can push that off for a little while longer,” Donna replies. But she slides her arms into her coat and stands up. “I’m not sure I can really afford…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Don’t worry about it,” CJ says. “You can always return things.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna gives CJ a look, but she can’t hold back her smile for too long. “Alright. Let’s go.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> CJ first leads her into a shop that she definitely can’t afford, but Donna doesn’t say anything. She’ll buy a dress on her credit card, admire herself in it for a few days and wonder what it might be like to actually own it, and return it a few days later. If she had a date, she’d wear it for the date, but nothing is on the horizon.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She finds herself drawn to a dark blue dress; it’s a little fancier than she usually would buy, but she figures she’s never going to actually wear it anywhere, so why not try it on? Just to feel what it would be like.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Find something?” CJ asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah,” Donna replies with a smile. “I’m going to go try it on.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Come out and show me,” CJ says, turning to another rack of dresses.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna steps into the fitting room and pulls on the dress. It’s absolutely gorgeous; the color complements her hair and skin beautifully, the fit is practically perfect, and she feels more like an artist or movie star at a gala than a White House assistant. She wishes she had something like this when they went to LA. It’s too much, even for a really nice date, and she doesn’t dare to look at the price tag, but it’s too late. She’s in love. With the dress, of course. That kind of love doesn’t break any rules.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She pulls back the curtain and sees CJ waiting there. “Oh, Donna, that’s beautiful,” she says softly. “You absolutely have to get it.”<br/>“I’m not sure I…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Don’t worry about it,” CJ says. “You can bring it back if you decide you need to. But don’t you want to have it, at least for a few days?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Desperately,” Donna admits sheepishly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s perfect. Come on, get undressed and we’re going to get it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> This whole trip has been odd, but Donna doesn’t want to overthink it. She’s appreciated CJ’s steady friendship these past few months, and maybe this is how CJ burns off steam. She wouldn’t have imagined it of her, but she figures there’s a lot more to these people than she can ever possibly understand, even after the years they’ve spent working in the same building.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She goes up to the counter and pulls out her credit card, cringing a little when she looks at the price tag. It’s such a perfect dress, but she wonders how anyone might afford it. Then again, this is DC, where everyone who isn’t on a government salary is making a lot of money. She was just stupid enough to get involved in the public sector.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Not that she regrets it for a second.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> The cashier rings up the dress, but before she can slide her card, she gets stopped. “Ma’am, I’ve been told that the dress is already paid for,” the cashier says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna pales for a second and turns to CJ. “No. No, you can’t possibly…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> CJ shakes her head. “Wasn’t me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Then…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “An anonymous benefactor,” CJ teases. “Come on, Donna. You love the dress. Accept some generosity.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> This is weird. This is beyond weird, and there’s something about CJ’s smile that tells her something is going on. Somebody put CJ up to this, and she thinks she knows who, but she’s not sure she wants her suspicions confirmed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna takes the now bagged dress with reluctance, thinking she might actually be on some ridiculous prank show. That’s the most logical explanation, right? Because he wouldn’t… But who else would…?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She and CJ leave the store and drive back toward the White House, Donna still wondering the whole time. She’s experienced plenty of odd things in her life—that’s par for the course working at the White House—but this may just be the most confounding of all because it isn’t about politics or world peace or anything like that. This is about her, and the White House Press Secretary is in on it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I think you should show that off,” CJ says, as they enter the lobby. “I’m sure Bonnie and Ginger and Carol would love to see it. Go change in Josh’s office.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She and the other assistants do have a habit of showing off their date outfits to each other, considering they usually all have to get ready for any night out while still trying to work. There’s no such thing as going home to get ready, not with their schedules. So she supposes it isn’t that weird, although she’s not going on a date tonight, so…</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Unless this is a setup? Maybe they’ve all heard about her terrible date last week, and are trying to set her up with someone else and spring it on her?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head. These are all ridiculous ideas. She doesn’t think she can argue with CJ, though, so she takes the dress back towards Josh’s empty office and closes all the doors. CJ offers to stand guard against potential invaders, although Donna sees that as unlikely.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His office is probably the neatest she’s ever seen it. He had left it in its usual chaotic state when he headed to Rosslyn, and it had devolved into further chaos as everyone who worked in the building seemed to need to locate files that were organized in a way only comprehensible to Josh. Finally, Donna has decided she had enough of looking at the disaster zone that it was and had spent an entire day cleaning and reorganizing it. She’s sure that will last all of an hour once he’s back, but for now it’s almost as neat as Sam’s.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna puts on the dress again, thankful that she wore the right bra today to go with it, and smooths it out. She opens the door, peeking her head out. “All clear, CJ?” she asks, although she’s not sure what it needs to be clear for.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “They’re all ready. Come on out,” CJ replies.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It isn’t Bonnie or Ginger or Carol waiting in the bullpen.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It isn’t even Toby or Sam.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It’s Josh, standing there, his jaw dropping and his eyes wide.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna doesn’t even register the oddness of him standing there for a second. Of course he’s here; she just emerged from his office, this is where he works, and it makes perfect sense that he’s here.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You look… incredible!” he exclaims.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna is so busy enjoying his wide-eyed shock that she doesn’t notice CJ slip away.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh…” she starts, and then it hits her. “Josh, you shouldn’t be here! What are you doing here? How did you get in?” She looks him over more closely. He’s wearing a suit, which he hasn’t done in ages. It is one that has always been too big on him, but with the weight he’s lost since the shooting, he’s practically swimming in it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He shrugs, pulling his dropped jaw into a mischievous grin. “I managed to persuade Dr. Bartlet, which, believe me, is no easy task.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I believe you,” Donna replies. “But what are you doing here?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Taking you out.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It’s Donna’s turn to drop her jaw. “Like on a date?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “No!” Josh protests. “It’s not a date, why does everyone keep calling it that?”<br/>“Everyone?”<br/>Josh puts his hands in his pockets and looks down at the floor. “I uhh… I had some help in arranging this evening.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “CJ was part of the plot, I assume?” Donna says, looking around and noticing for the first time that CJ is gone.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re the anonymous benefactor she was referring to?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna turns around in exasperation. She’s not sure what she expected, and she’s definitely not sure what she’s supposed to be feeling. “Joshua!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Are you… mad?” he questions, his voice hitching slightly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Will you tell me what’s going on?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m taking you out to dinner,” Josh says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You paid—an absurd amount amount of money I might mention—for this dress, you’re taking me out to dinner… Josh, you’re not even supposed to be out! Rule number five! Why are you…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh takes a step toward her. “Because after the crap few months you’ve had, trying to do your job while also taking care of quite possibly the worst patient ever, you deserve a new dress and a nice dinner out. And so, I say this with all due respect and admiration for your regulations that probably kept me alive: screw the rules, we’re going out tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re taking me on a date?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Like I said, it’s not a date. It’s a dinner to demonstrate my appreciation for you and all you’ve done,” Josh insists. “I really should have planned this surprise better. I didn’t realize you’d argue.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna lets out a sound, although she’s not sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. “I’m not arguing, this is just… so incredibly sweet of you to do,” she says, throwing her arms around him gently. She doesn’t pull him too tight—she knows his chest can still be sensitive to pressure at times—but he puts his arms around her and squeezes her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You deserve it,” he says, burying his head in her shoulder. “There’s a cab waiting for us and dinner’s at seven, so we should get going.” He takes a step back and studies her face. “Donna, if you don’t want to, we don’t have…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She shakes her head, wiping her eyes surreptitiously. “I want to,” she says. “I absolutely want to.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh spends the whole cab ride to the restaurant admiring her. When CJ had warned him how much the dress cost, he had felt his stomach drop a little, but after seeing her in it, he doesn’t care what kind of hit his bank account will take. It’s really the least he can do, after she lived on his couch for two months and saw him through one of the very worst periods of his life. He’ll never be able to fully repay her for that, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> They pull up in front of the place, a nice steakhouse overlooking the Potomac, and are led to a candlelit table with a beautiful view. “Josh, I really can’t…” Donna says, looking around at the place, but she trails off.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey, hey. Enjoy the night,” he says. “Don’t worry about anything.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “This is so…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shakes his head. “I’m never going to be able to repay you, okay? But let me try.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She presses her lips together and nods, and he’s not sure if she’s accepted this or not. He pulls out her chair and then takes his own seat across from her, opening up the menu and studying it. The waiter comes by and asks for their drink orders.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Wine?” Josh asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “For you or for me?” she responds, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll take a glass of the chardonnay. No point in getting a bottle since you’re going to get red,” she says, tacitly giving approval to the question she knows he’s really asking. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The merlot, please,” Josh orders. As the waiter leaves, he smiles at Donna and murmurs, “Is rule number eight off for the night, then?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shrugs. “I’m thinking it’s time to revise the rules,” she says. “You’re entering a different phase of your recovery…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m completely recovered, Donna.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Should I ask your doctors to confirm that?”<br/>Josh is silent.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I thought so,” Donna continues. “Nevertheless, since you’re coming back to work next week, the original rules are probably not realistic anymore. Not to mention the fact that you’ve managed to break every single one.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I didn’t break rule number ten,” Josh defends quickly. Maybe too quickly, but he can’t let it go unsaid. What if she thought… no, he can’t contend with that concept at the moment.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You broke every other rule, though.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Sometimes with your permission.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And most of the time without.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shakes his head. “Yeah, I did break most of the rules,” he admits with a chuckle. “But usually, just because someone breaks the rules doesn’t mean we immediately get rid of them. Law school taught me that much at least.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There’s an eye roll from Donna, but she smiles and takes a sip of her wine. “I’m glad your education at Yale Law prepared you to try and argue your way out of your assistant’s regulations, if nothing else. Tens of thousands of dollars well spent.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “So what you’re saying is I can burn the old rules?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Do whatever you want with them,” Donna says, “but trust me, the day you get back to work, there’s going to be a whole new list of rules to make sure you don’t immediately go back to your habit of working yourself to death.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh grimaces behind his wine glass. “Donna…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “But as long as you listen to your doctors and don’t do anything stupid, and you keep eating well and doing your exercises like you’re supposed to, then we can say that the rules are no longer in force,” Donna finishes.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ll drink to that,” Josh says, holding up his glass. “I’d like to propose a toast, to the overthrow of the oppressive force known as the rules!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re really making me regret this whole conversation,” Donna says, but she obliging clinks her glass with his. “You know they were there for your own good.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shakes his head. “That’s the go-to line of an oppressive government.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You say that all the time.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I do in fact work for the government. And while I think the Constitution is a pretty good safeguard against our oppressive whims, that’s still what I’d say if I wanted to oppress people,” Josh teases.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Do you want to oppress people?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Sometimes.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head and puts down her menu. “Well now that I know your real reasons for working in government…” She laughs and picks up the menu again, scanning it. “What are you planning on getting?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The chicken piccata,” Josh replies.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Really? Not a piece of steak burnt to leather texture?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shrugs and puts down his menu as well. “The doctors say I need to eat less red meat. And anyway, I always get judged when I order steak.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Maybe because you always ask them to ruin a perfectly good cut of steak?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I did not bring you out to a very nice dinner just to hear you judge my taste in meat,” Josh replies with a tone of annoyance. “But maybe I will order a steak, since you’re…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head. “No. You’re taking good care of yourself, keep that up.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Someone has to, and since you’re no longer staying on my couch…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You don’t need me there anymore, and I figured since I’m still paying for my apartment, I may as well use it,” Donna replies, seeming immediately defensive.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh shakes his head. “No, no. You’re right, it was time and honestly, you didn’t need to stay over all that time anyway. But I’m so glad you did. Beyond glad. Seriously Donna, the last three months of my life have been beyond terrible, save for the fact that you were always there. I’m not sure I would have made it through all of this without you.” He takes a deep breath, wondering if he has the words to possibly express all of this. Maybe he should have asked Sam to write him a speech. “I owe my life to a lot of people. Toby, for finding me. Paramedics, ambulance drivers, surgeons, nurses. But once they stitched me up and sent me home… you did so much. You dealt with my frustration, my anger, my pain, and you didn’t let me get away with being a jackass but you also showed incredible compassion when I needed it most. You helped me push myself to get better when I had no energy or motivation, and you calmed me down when I was anxious or stressed. You made a very trying time bearable, which is about all anyone could ask for. I owe my life to a lot of people, Donna, but I think at the top of that list, I’d put you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There might be tears in her eyes, but the restaurant is dark enough that Josh isn’t sure. He reaches across the table to grab her hand and lace her fingers through him. “Josh, I…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You don’t have to say anything. In fact, we never have to talk about this again. I just had to get that off my chest,” he says, his free hand moving to hover over his heart. “No pun intended.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna manages to compose herself and is about to say something when the waiter comes back to take their orders. By the time Josh has ordered his chicken (with a side salad, no less!) and she has ordered a flank steak, the moment is gone, she doesn’t have anything to say, and Josh is joking again like usual, but she thinks his words might stay with her forever.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’s never mentioned his own rule—it was, of course, a joke, and he was pretty drugged when he came up with it so he probably doesn’t even remember—but Donna wonders if she might have just broken it after hearing his speech. Or if she’s been breaking it for a long, long time.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh, meanwhile, keeps thinking back to the one rule he hasn’t broken, the one rule he can’t break. It will be easier once they’re out of this strange limbo, easier when they’re back to assistant and boss and the lines are much more clearly delineated and he’s not constantly exposedphysically and emotionally in the most humiliating ways possible. Maybe they’re on the edge of something, but this time doesn’t count. Next week, they’ll be boss and assistant again, and nothing more, and now that he’s told her everything he feels, and it’s nothing inappropriate, just the musings of a healing and grateful man. He hasn’t broken rule number ten, and he won’t. This is as close to the edge he’ll get.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Still. It’s hard not to wonder when he considers her the first and foremost reason that he’s still alive today.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> They eat dinner together, on their night out that is definitely not a date, and he hopes that this is enough to show her exactly how grateful he is for her, nothing less.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> And, he hopes, nothing more.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh doesn’t even take the time to stop and look through the window and make sure it’s actually the right room before throwing the door open. It’s a good thing he’s right, or whatever poor soul was in the bed would have been shocked to see a breathless, wide-eyed White House Chief of Staff enter.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> But the poor soul in the bed is Donna, and so his appearance comes as absolutely no surprise.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Are you alright?” he asks, his chest heaving.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna is tempted to point out that his question is kind of stupid, considering where she is, but he’s already stressed enough and she doesn’t want to put him through anything more. “I’m fine, Josh, there were just a lot of contractions, and a little bleeding…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Bleeding?” He looks like he’s about to faint, although whether it’s from the idea of the blood or the worries he has about his wife is indeterminate.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s perfectly normal, Josh,” she says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “If it was perfectly normal, you wouldn’t be here,” he argues.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna sighs heavily. “Your son, it seems, has taken after you in that he is incredibly impatient.” She puts her hands on her swollen belly. “It seems like he’s ready to come into the world.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s only what, thirty…’</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Thirty-two weeks,” Donna says, pressing her lips into a thin line.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And you were going into labor?” Josh moves away from her bed to lean his back against the wall, a sure sign that his anxiety has not at all diminished.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m not in labor, at least they don’t think I am, but I was having contractions and I was bleeding. Just a little bit. So I came here. Just as a precaution.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Three hours ago,” Josh says. At Donna’s nod, he begins to pace. “This happened three hours ago and you didn’t tell me?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head. “Josh, you were in the situation room dealing with the hostage thing. In fact, you should still be in there! I told Mrs. Santos not to tell you, I told her that…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re more important,” Josh replies. “They don’t need me there, not as much as you need me here.” This is true. He had stepped out of the situation room back into his office for a few minutes when Margaret told him about the call he had from the First Lady; he had not hesitated to rush to the hospital, not even bothering to let anyone know he was going. He’ll probably hear about it later, but really, there’s not much he can do in there anyway. Especially not when he’s freaking out like this. He swallows thickly. “What’s wrong, then?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “They did an ultrasound, some tests. The doctor is going to come in and talk about it but they’re worried I’m at risk for premature labor.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Are you still having contractions?” he asks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna shakes her head. “They gave me something and it seems like it’s stopped for now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “If he… if he came now, would he be okay?” Josh asks, his voice shaking slightly. He’s back against the wall again, and the anxious, breathless energy has not left him at all.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna can’t look him in the eye. “In all likelihood, yes. Most babies born at thirty-two weeks make it, it just… takes a little longer. But the longer we can keep him in there, the better,” she explains, hoping that her voice doesn’t sound as shaky as it feels. If she’s not calm, he’s definitely not going to be calm, and while she has a lot of experience dealing with his anxiety, she really would rather not have to.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh blows out a stream of air and rubs his forehead. “Donna, are you sure that you’re…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The contractions have stopped. That’s all I know. Josh, it could easily have been false labor, which happens all the time! This is why I didn’t want you to know right away, because I knew you’d react like this!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’s off the wall and pacing again. “Donna, I…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Sit down, Josh!” Donna shouts, pointing to a chair near the bed. “We’re going to wait for the doctor to come back, and the doctor will tell us what’s going on, and everything will be okay. They have some of the best doctors in the world here. They saved your life when the odds were not good, they’re going to be able to deliver our baby successfully. Preferably not today, but if it comes to that, I have faith that it’ll be okay.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He doesn’t look convinced, but he sits down in the chair and directs his energy towards nearly pulling his hair out instead. “The plan was Georgetown, not here,” he says, pursing his lips.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “This is closer to work,” Donna says, although she doesn’t particularly like being here at GW either. She has a OBYGN at Georgetown, and a birth plan, and everything ready there, but somehow, she’s ended up in GW yet again. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Georgetown is closer to home.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well, I was at work when it happened, and…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Maybe you shouldn’t have been at work.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh, it’s too late for that…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> There’s a knock on the door and the doctor comes in with a clipboard, and thankfully, a bright smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Singh,” she says, shaking Donna’s hand. She turns to Josh. “And you’re…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh,” he says quickly. “Her husband.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna thinks it’s incredibly endearing that her husband, the second-most powerful man in the country, still introduces himself by his first name, and even more endearing how his breath hitches on the word ‘husband’, as if he’s still in awe of the fact that he can call himself that.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Great!” Dr. Singh says. “Now, the contractions have stopped, yes?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna nods soberly. “For about an hour now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Good, good. Well, here’s the good news. You're not in labor yet,” she says. “This was an episode of false labor, the body preparing itself to give birth.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh gives an audible sigh of relief, but Donna is studying the doctor’s face because she knows that’s not all.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “The bad news is that you’re definitely at risk for preterm labor. Between your age, your medical history, and your high-stress position, as well as a few other indicators present in your labs, you’re at a very high risk. Your baby is healthy and growing well, but we want to give him as long as he can to develop fully. We want to make it to at least thirty-six weeks.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna bites her lip and nods. “What can we do to make sure that I don’t go into labor?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What I’m going to do is put you on a modified bedrest,” Dr. Singh says. “Not full inactivity, because of your history with blood clots, but you’re going to have to start your maternity leave now and pretty much rest for the next four weeks.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna reaches for Josh’s hand and squeezes it, hoping the simple action relieves his stress and much as it does for her. “Okay,” she says. “Anything to make sure our baby is healthy.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m going to get some more information with you about what the next few weeks are going to look like; I would assume you have an OBGYN already, so I would advise you to get in contact there and let them know what’s happening. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Thank you, Dr. Singh,” Josh says, still holding onto Donna’s hand. When the door clicks closed behind the doctor, he turns to her. “You okay?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She nods. “Yeah. You?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m so sorry, Donna, this is…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It sucks,” Donna says with a shrug. “But it’s what, four weeks? Eight at the most? And at the end, it’ll all be worth it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh presses his lips together and looks at the clipboard that the doctor left. “They’ve got more pictures of him,” he says, standing to look at the gray images.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah. They took another ultrasound.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“He almost looks human now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I mean… I would hope he’s human. Unless you’re not, and you’re just getting around to letting me know now,” Donna teases.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh takes a lingering glance at the picture before turning around. “So here’s the thing. I’ve had a little experience with being on bedrest, and I know you have too, but in my experience, it goes hand in hand with rules.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna raises an eyebrow. “Rules?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes. It’s my turn to get to set the rules. And believe me, I will not hesitate to raise this to the level of an executive order if need be. I’m a very powerful man, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> This earns him an eye roll. “You know I only say that to get you to do something I want.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “At this point, you don’t even have to say that. I’m all yours.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Despite herself, Donna grins.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Before Josh can continue, there’s another knock on the door and Dr. Singh is back. The rules will have to wait.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He’s been mildly infuriating and overbearing throughout the entirety of her pregnancy, but it’s going to get so much worse, Donna thinks as they ascend the stairs to their apartment. His hand is hovering behind her back, and she basically had to push him away to stop him from trying to carry her up to the third floor.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks, squeezing past her and unlocking the door before she can even try. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m fine, Josh,” she replies with an eye roll.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Why did we get a third floor apartment again? That seems like an oversight, I mean what if you can’t…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna pushes past him and flops onto the couch. “You know what, Josh? You know what would be really helpful for me? If you’d calm down a little. You heard the doctor. It’s not like I’m confined to bed or whatever, I’m pretty much just supposed to take it easy the next few weeks.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’m sorry, I just…” he rubs his forehead and closes the door, leaning against it. He almost laughs, although it’s strained. “I’m sorry you have to go through this.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “We’ve both been through worse,” she says quietly, reaching out a hand from her spot on the couch. “Come here. It’s going to be fine.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He acquiesces to her request and joins her on the couch, letting her head rest against his chest. “I’m just… afraid of losing you again. Or him,” he adds, resting a hand on her bump and feeling the baby inside kick.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “He’s letting you know that we’re both going to be okay,” Donna translates with a grin. She can see from the set of Josh’s face that he doesn’t yet believe her. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh stands up again and begins to pace. “I’m holding you to that, and to that point, it’s time to establish some rules.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I thought you might have forgotten,” Donna remarks. She’s tempted to roll her eyes, but she knows that this is one way he can feel like he’s in control of an uncontrollable situation.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “How could I ever forget the rules?” he says. “Wait here a minute, I think we need some inspiration.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He heads back toward their bedroom, and she can hear things tumble down from a top shelf. She almost gets up to go help him, but she’ll let him deal with this disaster by himself—she’s cleaned up after him enough, and anyway, doctor’s orders.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> It’s a few minutes before he comes back, bright-eyed, with a laminated piece of paper that Donna never thought she would see again. “Behold,” he says, “the rules.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I thought you said you were going to burn them!” Donna replies, reaching out to take the paper from him and laughing. “I can’t believe you kept them!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh chuckles and takes a seat next to her again, draping his arm across the back of the couch. “I was going to burn them, but someone laminated them, and I care enough about the environment not to release unnecessary pollutants into the air.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “So you kept them?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well… that’s kind of a stupid question.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna pushes his shoulder. “I’m pregnant, give me a break!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I was very proud of how I managed to break all of them,” Josh says with a smirk. “But you are not allowed to break the new rules, because there’s more than just yourself to think about now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You did not break all the rules,” Donna argues. “I thought I did a pretty good job of keeping you from breaking them.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Let’s see about that. Working time limits? Definitely broke that one. No talking about work with visitors? Broke that one too.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Because you asked me for permission to break it, which doesn’t count!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Watching the news? Did that all the time when you weren’t home once I found your hiding places for the remote,” Josh continues. “Face it, Donnatella, your rules were no match for me, even in my weakened state.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna snatches the list out of his hands. “No books on politics? I brought you all the books you read, and I know that… okay, I guess there was that one, but most of the time you were reading about theoretical physics or the outdoors or whatever.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “But I did break it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Again, with my permission,” Donna argues. “You didn’t leave the apartment…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Except when I snuck into the White House and took you out to dinner.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You did not sneak in, you begged Mrs. Bartlet to let you in. And that was the night we decided the rules were no longer in force, so that hardly counts.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh takes back the list. “Nope, still counts as breaking the rules. Number six… yeah, there were many, many days that I didn’t take a nap because I wasn’t five years old.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You needed rest,” Donna scoffs, looking over his shoulder. “I hate to say it, but you did break rule seven occasionally.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks away from her. “Yeah, I was kind of a jackass to you sometimes. I mean, I definitely was when I wasn’t recovering from a gunshot wound too, but especially then. Sorry about that.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna kisses his cheek. “You were, but you’re forgiven. Number eight…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I broke that as often as I could when you wouldn’t buy anything but healthy food,” Josh says. “Once in a while I’d convince Toby to bring me something edible. But I did find your secret snack stash, and I must say, I was quite unimpressed with your hypocrisy on that score.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s where it was going…” Donna replies, without surprise. “In my defense, I wasn’t on a specific diet to you know, keep me alive. Let’s see, you definitely were too stubborn to ask for help when you needed it on many, many occasions, so you broke that one.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “See! I did in fact break all the rules!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not so fast,” Donna says. “What about rule number ten?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Rule number ten?” Josh pulls the paper closer to his eyes and squints at the last, hastily scribbled lines. Donna’s handwriting really is awful. “I… wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And you didn’t. That took another six years,” Donna says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh bites his lip and shakes his head. “I’m not sure it did.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What are you saying?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Donna…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She takes his hand and squeezes it. “When did you fall in love with me?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t know,” Josh says quietly. “I didn’t wake up one morning and think ‘I’m in love with Donna’, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not sure I ever consciously thought that until… definitely not until I came to Germany, maybe not until we kissed, maybe not even until after, but… now that I look back…” he takes a deep breath. “I loved you then. I didn’t know it then, but I know it now, and I wish it hadn’t taken me so long…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna interrupts him with a kiss, and he doesn’t pull away. When they finally have to come back up for air, she looks him in the eyes and keeps her hands on her cheeks. “I wish we hadn’t waited so long either, but I don’t regret what we have now. Don’t blame yourself for not understanding things that are frankly, still incomprehensible.” She grins softly and lets her hands drop. “Anyway, I broke your rule too.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You fell in love with me then?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I didn’t realize it then, either, but now that I think about it, from the moment that I heard you were shot I knew that I couldn’t live without you, and I knew how much you meant to me,” she says softly. “So yeah, I didn’t know it, but I fell in love with you too.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh chuckles and wipes away something from his eye that might be a tear. “And it only took us six more years to get it together.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “We had other things going on,” she says. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It does matter,” Josh says. “I mean, not because of that, because now we’re here and I can’t imagine anything better, but let it be known that despite Donnatella’s best efforts, I did in fact break all of the rules.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna chuckles, resisting the urge to smack him playfully. “I can’t wait to try and break all of yours,” she teases. “So what rules do you have for me now? Any inspiration from these?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Our situations are a little different,” Josh says, “but I think we can scratch rule number ten.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She buries her head in his chest, listening to his heartbeat, taking in its steady, comforting sound, and remembering when she simultaneously realized she might not hear it again and that she loved him beyond all reason. “I agree. That one, I think, might be a problem.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He kisses her hair and closes his eyes, wondering how he got so lucky. “You just need to be okay. You and the baby. That’s my rule.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Josh…” Donna says softly. She wishes she could tell him, unequivocally, that everything will be okay, but they’ve both been through enough to know that there are no guarantees. “That’s not a rule. A rule needs to be something in my control.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Fine. You need to do everything possible to make sure you and the baby will be okay. Follow all the doctor’s instructions, eat whatever they want you to, stay here, limit your stress…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She laughs softly. “If I have to limit my stress, you need to limit yours, because your stress makes me stressed.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I’ve never quite been able to figure out how to do that. Hence all the therapy,” he remarks, and while he says it lightly, she knows he’s beyond scared for her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna squeezes his hand. “I’m going to make another rule. For myself.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You can’t do that! I get to make the rules this time,” Josh whines. “You got unilateral rule-making powers last time!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’ll like this one. My rule is that I will call you the second anything is wrong, even if you’re in the situation room, even if Margaret says you’re busy. That said, if I call you, you have to promise not to visibly stress. It’s bad for you and it’s bad for the baby,” she says.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh bites his lip. “I can live with that, or at least I’ll try my best. Because yes, if anything is happening, I want to know. God, Donna, when they came to get me out of the sit room and told me you were at the hospital, I think my heart stopped. I was so terrified. All I could think of was when I found out about the CODEL, and…” His voice trails off, as memories he’d rather not dwell on come back to him.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I know how it feels,” she replies softly, reverently, scenes from a sticky August night playing in her head.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Maybe I should start my parental leave early. Stay here and take care of you,” Josh says. “After all, it’s about time I paid you back for the three months you looked after my sorry ass. Actually, the whole decade of it…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re going to need to start watching your language around the baby,” Donna teases, putting her hand protectively over her bump. “But Josh… there’s so much going on. I know how many bills you’re trying to get through before the summer recess, and with the Kazakhstan situation…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I can start now. Sam’s so well-prepped to fill in for me, my role might as well be superfluous.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna knows that’s not true; hard as he tries to spend time with her and live a healthier lifestyle, Josh still works harder than almost anyone in the White House, and his efforts are often unrecognized. “I don’t need you here. I’m not technically on bedrest, just limited activities. I’ll be okay on my own.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “I need to be here,” he argues, putting his hand protectively over her bump. “Do you really think I’m going to be able to focus right now? I’ll drive everyone up a wall. I’m already the nuttiest chief of staff to occupy the office, and it’s about to be a thousand times worse.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That’s not comforting, Josh…”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He shakes his head. “But if I’m here… then I can make it better for you, and I only have to look at you to know that you’re going to be okay.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna closes her eyes and fits her hand into his. “Take it to the President, see what he thinks.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “He’ll be thrilled to be rid of me when I’m in this state,” Josh jokes, and while they both know it isn’t true, there’s something to be said for the elevation of Josh’s neuroses complicating the working relationship. “Anyway, I need to make sure you follow the rules.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Ah, the truth comes out. Being the second-most powerful man in the country isn’t enough for you; you need to be able to regulate your wife as well.” She nudges him with her elbow, but there’s a smile on her face.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You were incredibly dictatorial, as I recall.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Donna raises an eyebrow. “For your own good.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t wait to use all your own words against you.” He stretches his arm out on the back of the couch, but never takes his eyes off of his wife. “So rule number one, do everything possible to make sure you and the baby are okay. Rule number two, if anything is happening, call me, although I’m going to start my leave so I’ll probably be right by your side.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Only two rules?” Donna challenges. “I gave you ten.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Only nine of them were serious,” Josh says. “As I recall, the last one you added on because nine rules felt wrong.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It does! So does two rules. Three is a much better number of rules,” she asserts, bringing her face close to her ear.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh turns toward her so that their lips are close to touching. “What do you propose, then, as a third rule?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’re the maker of the rules,” she teases.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well then,” he whispers, his low voice making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on edge, “rule number three is that you need to kiss me every day.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Even though I’m fat and ugly and look like a beached whale and can’t do much more than kiss you at risk of going into labor early?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Josh brings his hand to her cheek and can’t hide the grin on his face. “You’re carrying our child, and you’re absolutely beautiful. So how about it? How about rule number three?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “That means you have to kiss me every day, too.” Her lips are so close to his now.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> His eyes are dark with desire and love, and her stomach drops to know just how close they were to losing this so many times. But he doesn’t seem to be thinking of any of that now, because he presses his lips to hers, unable to repress his smile.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> As they pull back for air, he is practically glowing with his adoration for her. “Well? How about rule number three?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Won’t be a problem,” she says, and kisses him again.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Honestly, I'm a little sad to finish this fic! It was definitely more than I bargained for (I originally intended it to be a one-shot with the first and last scenes and short vignettes of rule-breaking in the middle, but suddenly those short vignettes ended up being 8000 words because I don't know how to write short things...) but I really loved writing it and I'm so grateful for all your encouragement and support. Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think if you feel so inclined, and if you ever want to chat, I'm on tumblr under hufflepuffhermione.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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